The Eulogy and the Unsung Hero
by Byoshi
Summary: Slight LinkxSamus, mainly Link and Marth friendship: After the events of becoming the Hero of Time, Link returns to being just a nobody until a spacecraft lands in Hyrule Field and he meets Samus Aran. Tempted by the prospect of a new purpose, Link embarks on a mission to enter and win a Tournament, on behalf of his best friend - whom he's never actually met.
1. the unsung hero

**A/N: This is my first Brawl-based fic and proper multichapter after Perfect. There will be some people missing from the roster for the story's sake, namely Zelda, Ganondorf and Toon Link. Thanks for clicking and please enjoy :) **

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 1 – the unsung hero-o-o**

_Link didn't want to let it go. He had a hundred reasons to keep holding on and yet, they broke down to accept their selfish nature at the foot of a single cause, a single hope. It had been so long since the Hero of Time had put his complete trust in someone else's hands. This was surely how the people of Hyrule had felt, the way he did now; he was lost and naked and frightened with no one to rely on but a single man._

_He gripped the slate, traced the angular and foreign letters, tried to burn them into the back of his mind so he'd never forget. He was a victor, a champion, an unsung hero all over again, but he wished he wasn't._

_"Find me," he said, and though he had meant it as an impossible request, Marth Lowell smiled as if he had already been found._

**-x-**

I regret to admit: I grew up in a blur. After saving Hyrule Kingdom by sealing Ganondorf in the Sacred Realm, Princess Zelda transported me back in time so that I could relive my lost childhood. There were no key moments, no further adventures or prominent memories – I just grew up.

My transition from boy to adult can only be marked by the robust health of fattened Cuccos I overfed across the years; the boost in Kakariko's relationship with the Zora tribe because I could deliver treasures without taking a cut for myself; the transformation of the stubborn foal, Epona, into a sixteen-hands high mare.

There was peace in Hyrule and yet, as soon as I became a teenager, I armed myself and re-mastered simple sword and shield. Oftentimes, I crept onto roofs or clambered up trees, just to sit closer to the sky and wait for the Sages to call me again. I waited endlessly to be summoned into battle; other times I never looked away from the horizon, convinced that if I waited long enough, I would be rewarded with Ganondorf's vengeful silhouette against the sunset.

By the time I reached adulthood, I realised Hyrule would never be able to provide this. I had steered it to peace with my own hands; my own legs had taken me to stand out of the ring of long-lasting harmony.

It sounds that way, but I haven't grown up praying for war. War is only one suggestion to my desire to fight, to feel sweat on my forehead and strain in my muscles, to feel my life because I am about to lose it.

I'm waiting, and the stranger from space knows it before I do.

For the hundredth time in these endlessly carefree days, I am dawdling through Hyrule Field with Epona and a trail of Cuccos in my wake. That's how she finds me. She is immensely tall, dwarfing most men in Hyrule, clad in a suit of armour forged unlike any other armour I have ever seen. It seems to glisten, even in the lack of sun, even without elaborate decorations on the helmet or breastplate.

In the first few seconds of us meeting, I unsheathe my sword and pinpoint her weaknesses. The huge shoulders surely restrict arm movement; as an opening, I can crack the back of the helmet at its joint and take the battle from there.

However, her left arm moves so slowly, so casually. I can't mistake it as a prelude to a battle. She merely takes off her helmet, gives me no time to register her appearance, and greets me with a dull, "Hello. Samus Aran."

Several things happen after that. A huge shadow falls across me, only to disappear as quickly as it came. Something streaks across the sky, a split-second vision of a giant bird's yellow underside; yet my thoughts are forcibly deterred when an orange ball drops out of nowhere to land in front of me. It straightens, and the round face of a fox smiles up.

"Finally," he says. "You're quite elusive. We've been looking all over for you; we were starting to worry we might miss the entry deadline. Anyway, there's no time to waste; let's get you on board the Flyer and we can debrief there. Oh wait…I'm sorry, you don't understand a word, do you?"

"Actually…" I try to correct him, but Samus cuts in.

"The beauty of the Universal Language is that it derives from ancient lands like Hyrule. He understands every word, although I imagine our accent is jarring." Samus outstretches a hand, not in greeting, but to take my sword. She turns it, point facing the ground. "We're here to pick you up."

True to her word, I can understand their language as something so close to Hylian but without the soft intonations or expression. The fox, at the very least, talks like he is angry with every syllable. Samus, however, speaks as if there is a script in front of her.

Epona shakes back her mane and snorts. The movement snaps me out of my reverie (for I have never heard Hylian – or the Universal Language, as they call it – be spoken so tonelessly). "I'm sorry. I don't know what you want from me."

The fox scoots forwards out of Samus' giant shadow. "We want to borrow your talents for a mission of ours."

"We've heard there's a hero up for hire," quips Samus. "We're looking for a dated country boy named Link, who saved Hyrule from an evil force, took no credit for it and currently spends his time feeding chickens." She pushes a Cucco out of the way with a foot. "Perhaps we have the wrong person, but you seem to fit the criteria."

One hand reaches out to pat Epona on the head. Epona doesn't back away and consequently, neither do I. Still trying to adjust to the bizarre encounter, I convince myself: perhaps I have spent too long in the sun today, and my carefully buried desire to be needed is now showing through the strangest of hallucinations.

My guard – whatever qualms and suspicions I had about them before – only heightens when it is clear they know who I am. How do they know of events which have effectively been wiped from Hyrule's timeline?

"Listen, uh…I might sound offensive here, but Hyrule isn't as great and awe-inspiring as you think it is." The fox shifts his weight from foot to foot, apparently able to read my expression. "There are worlds outside of it, far more advanced than this Kingdom. A lot of nations draw their research on ancient magic from Hyrule. Admittedly, the ability to reverse and rewrite time has been lost in evolution, though. Maybe _we're_ the backward ones. But I digress."

He flashes another toothy smile, although it turns apologetic when he looks up at Samus.

"I realise it's a lot to take in," she says, and her lack of sympathy does not go unnoticed, "so let's just get to the point. We're here to ask a favour of you: to enter the Fourth Smash Brothers Tournament. You might have heard of it."

I can't rearrange my blank look in time. Her frown increases. "Okay," she says heavily. "There's a lot to explain, and you're going to be in for a culture shock. Nevertheless, I think our mission will appeal to you. We – I'll introduce you to the crew in due course – are going to the Smash Brothers Tournament in Mushroom Kingdom, to put a spanner in the works. It's managed by an evil tyrant, and vanquishing evil tyrants is your forte, if I recall correctly."

"Are you game?" the fox asks, and his voice is fast becoming demanding. "Are you up for it, I mean?"

I realise I am. I tend to be very accepting – a trait many would class as a weakness. When saving Hyrule, I had never questioned Zelda's orders or doubted the Sages, not even once. I just got on with it. Samus is likely to be counting on this flaw of mine.

"Where are you from?" It's one question of many, but it's easily the one I want answered first. Their attire fascinates me, such that I stare at them in a way that might seem discourteous. Samus' armour is undoubtedly heavy, but she gestures (and now walks away from me) as though it is part of her skin. I want to know how a fox can speak and dress like a human, and why he casts frequent glances at Epona as if she insults him.

"We're both from pretty far away; it'll go over your head. Suffice to say, we're not from Hyrule. Our worlds are united at least when it comes to Smash Brothers. Think of it as a meeting point for the past and future, heroes and villains alike." She gestures for me to fall in step with her, an impossible feat unless I half-walk, half-run. I tug Epona's reins to get her to follow. The Cuccos scatter back up a dusty path heading south, knowing that feeding time is over. Kakariko village is just a dot on the horizon.

What am I doing in the middle of nowhere, in the company of strangers?

"Now previously, you were fated to defeat evil," Samus continues. "This time, I'm asking you to fight for a similar cause, but of your own admission. There are places beyond Hyrule that you've never heard of, which could do with someone like you. The world's your oyster, Link, but the world's only as big as you let it be."

I want an opportunity to fight, to be blessed with purpose again. _That's_ why I'm in the middle of nowhere, smiling at the irony that such an unfamiliar situation now offers exactly what I desire.

Samus' steps grow longer, as if she knows the sudden pace will push all doubt out of my mind.

"What do you need me to do?"

"To enter and win a tournament. Believe it or not, this simple task will end one tyrant's reign, as well as reward us with some vindictive glee. It's not going to be simple, so that's why you have us." She raises an arm, almost hitting me in the face. I stumble back into Epona. Samus' abrupt movement seems to suggest she is waving to the sky.

"The horse stays." The fox takes Epona's reins kindly but with an unmistakeable air of finality. "She's not going to like travelling in the Falcon Flyer. If you're really distressed about it, though," he adds, when I automatically reach for the reins, "we can ask Peach to arrange something."

I am about to ask what the Falcon Flyer is, but after walking a few more steps, a giant shadow falls on us from above, accompanied by the strong sound of whistling. The afternoon breeze morphs into a gale and strikes my face. All of a sudden, I can't see anything unless I look down. A mass of blue and yellow lands in front of us and, fighting through the storm, I can just make out a curved front like a beak and a back fanning out like wings.

"It's perfectly safe," Samus reassures, and she leaps onto what I can only assume is a large machine for travel.

"Do they have foxes in Hyrule?" The fox rounds on me like a demanding child, eyes narrowing a tad.

"They do," I answer, "but not talking ones. If that helps."

"Not really. I was hoping my unimaginative name would slip past you. The name's Fox McCloud. I'm a pilot and Smasher for the Tournament too, though of course, I'm only competing to tip the scales in your favour. Quite often I'm told I'm unbearable company, but at least it's some, right? We don't want to throw you into the deep end on your own."

Admittedly, I can see how he would be unbearable. He talks too much, too fast; his voice is harsh and his gaze intimidating. Despite all this, relief washes over me. I have gone from having no purpose to being utterly spoilt for choice.

I have done a lot of climbing in my time, but my skills are rendered useless on the Falcon Flyer's shiny surface. Fox grabs me by the arm with force so that I stand atop it, and a hatch opens before us. I have no time to admire the metallic shine or enjoy the fierce, raucous wind that threatens to throw me off. Fox shouts, "After you. Quickly, come on!" and I leap inside. Fox follows, pulling the hatch shut behind him to seal us inside. I feel quite uncomfortable at the thought of this, yet a wide window ahead of me offers some solace. Though tinted green glass, I can see back out at Hyrule. Epona hasn't moved from her spot, and her tail swishes calmly. That she has quickly become trusting of Samus and her world is my only comfort.

I give myself a few seconds to adjust to the lighting and odd layout of the compartment we are in, even if no one else does. At the front is a strange assortment of controls, with an equally bizarre set of boxes on the left hand side. A door leads on behind me and to my right is a rounded table with two people at it. The whirring of the Falcon Flyer is virtually inaudible when in here. The gale too, can hardly be noticed. Besides the swaying grass, it is deathly still outside.

"Wake up, Link, come along and meet the rest of the crew." Fox slaps my elbow and gestures for me to walk forwards. I hesitate, however, when Samus sits at the controls and consequently, turns her back to me.

"Don't mind, don't mind," Fox says, his voice bright and comforting. "Come and sit down. Link, this is Captain Fal_con_–" he gestures to a burly man whose warm eyes stand out more than his muscles "–and this is Fal_co_." He grins at a blue feathered bird who, like Fox, appears to be a cross between animal and human. I am quick to pick up on Falco's instant dislike of me.

"Feel free to call the former _Captain_, and the latter, whatever insult springs to mind," says Fox, and I am beginning to wonder if he ever stops grinning. Falco only gives me a bland look in greeting.

Captain Falcon stands up and approaches fast, grabbing my hand and shaking it mercilessly. Like Samus, he towers over me. "Hi. I'm so glad you've finally joined. The deadline for tournament entry is close so we're on a bit of a tight schedule. Anyway, welcome aboard."

"We're on a tight schedule, like you say." Samus wheels round in her seat, fingers knitted together. "Perhaps you could lift the Flyer out of here sometime today."

"It's on auto take off," Falcon quips. "Will shoot to the skies in less than a second."

"I hope not," Samus returns. "Are you trying to make him sick?"

"Fine, fine, I'll put it on a cruise…Sorry, Link. I tend to forget to think things through. Can I get you a drink, by the way?"

I shake my head. He shrugs and wanders into a seat of his own next to Samus, his walk ungainly. When he sits down, Samus smacks his shoulder irritably. He only laughs in response.

The Falcon Flyer gives a small shudder, and Hyrule begins to roll away. Falcon has one hand on a lever of some sort. Piloting this machine seems easy, for he has the time to crane his neck round and call, "Seriously, Link, sit down."

I choose the seat closest to Fox and furthest from Falco. This doesn't go unnoticed. Falco crosses his arms, leans back in his seat. Then, he says, "Nice getup."

"Thank you." I am aware that I don't boast expensive attire. In fact, one might argue there is more darn on my tunic than there is remaining fabric. My boots are worn and my sleeves frayed. I almost take the criticism to heart, aware that I do look dated against the backdrop of their world, but a shadow slides across me and Samus slumps into the final seat.

"Falco's still working on his manners." She unloads a set of papers before me, rolling her eyes at him. "The Tournament starts in one week. In that space of time, we need you to pass the interview, get a moveset constructed and teach you the basics of Smash Brothers. On getting through and qualifying as a Smasher, Peach has arranged for Mewtwo to help you settle in—"

"Because Mewtwo has great manners," Falco utters. Samus silences him with a look.

I really can't tell if she likes me or not. She appears fierce and irritable by default, but she speaks as though she has utmost confidence in me.

"This is where it gets interesting," she says. "As soon as you enter Tournament Grounds, everyone there is your enemy – and I mean everyone. There will be sponsors and media crews, both of whom will try to smear your name; there will be the other Smashers, the people you will compete against for first place. Fox and Falco are both entering the Tournament, but they can't break cover by being your friend; they won't even acknowledge you."

Falco seems quite pleased about this, but it isn't that that concerns me. "Just Fox and Falco? Are you not a Smasher then?"

I look at her and Falcon.

"Neither of us are," Falcon answers.

Fox swiftly steers the conversation to another direction. "Now whatever you do, don't fall for the intergalactic union spiel they have going on there. The place is a real hellhole and the sooner you learn that, the easier it is to cope." Fox rummages in a cabinet by his side and from it, he takes more papers and booklets. As soon as he hands them to me, I rifle through them with a mixture of interest and disappointment. The pictures are fascinating enough, but not one word is written in Hylian.

"That's the Smash handbook." Falco, in Samus' presence I assume, is suddenly being cooperative. He snatches this book from my grasp and tosses it aside. "Bit pointless because you won't be able to read it. Moreover, there's no point in learning Master Hand's rules because what applies to you, is _our_ rules."

"Master Hand?" I repeat. Falco gives me a sour look, and I feel as if I had just uttered a curse at him.

"He runs Smash Brothers. He's also a manipulative, money-grabbing bastard who needs to be shut down," he says with such ferocity that even across the table, I'm certain some spittle lands on me.

"You might be alarmed at first, and we'll understand that," Falcon calls over from his seat, though he remains facing out the window. "Master Hand is quite literally a hand – a big, disembodied one."

Samus sifts through the mass of paper on the table, idly picking up one and twirling it between two long fingers. I study the picture as it moves. She raises an eyebrow, perhaps expecting me to fall into a panic.

I don't. "He's rather like a Wallmaster then?" I suggest.

"What's a Wallmaster?" Falco snaps, sounding quite alarmed himself.

"They're creatures, more so guardians. Big, disembodied hands–" I nod in Falcon's direction "–and I am familiar with them. If it is that you'd like me to defeat, I have no qualms about it."

She is taken aback for only a second, and then Samus leans back in her chair with an air of satisfaction. In the welcoming pause, I glance out the window to see if we are still in Hyrule, yet there are nothing but blue skies. I wonder how we have managed to go so far up without detection or notice on my part.

"Wallmaster, eh," Fox muses. "I wasn't expecting that kind of response. His naïve persona will really sell, don't you think?"

"It's played well before with Smashers," says Samus. I can't really follow the conversation. "Although I'm pretty sure Jigglypuff and Pikachu fake it."

"The latter for sure," utters Falcon, and the Flyer dips and shudders, reflecting his mood. Samus cracks a tiny smile and for a moment, it looks as though it will linger, but Falcon speaks again, and the good mood disappears as quickly as it had arrived. "Samus," he says carefully. "Marth is en route to Mushroom Kingdom. Are we…you know, going to stop there?"

In that short moment, I notice several things.

That Samus, whatever her reasons for indifference, forgets her stoicism at the sound of one particular syllable.

That Captain Falcon is eyeing a small box of old wood, resting on the front window's sill.

That when Marth is mentioned, everyone looks at me.

"Bypass him," Samus says, seizing her papers with an air of finality. "Let's get Link in as a Smasher before we add more to the plate."

"Who is Marth?" I ask her, but she becomes temporarily deaf. With my keen ears, however, I overhear Falco utter to Fox, "How are we going to get him through our mission if he doesn't know who Marth is?"

"Falco," Samus barks, throwing the Smash handbook back at him. "Locate the key sections to this and prepare to read them aloud. Link, I want you to listen and absorb the knowledge. Fox, get Peach on the line and tell her to send Mewtwo over to meet us in eight hours. Falcon…"

He waves a hand, and I catch his grin. "…Touchdown in eight hours, I know."

Samus digs into her stack of papers and pulls out a blue booklet, starting to write on it. "Your application form," she explains, not bothering to look up. Her pen goes still. "Surname?"

"…I don't have one," I say, and on seeing her frown, I add, "Shall I make one up?"

"It's not a requirement. You're fine. Age?"

"Erm…" I start. Falcon has a sympathetic glance to spare; the other three manage to mask their exasperation.

"Twenty," Samus mutters, "that'll pass. I'll tell you what. I'll fill in this application for you while Falco runs you through the basics. Mewtwo will be with you at your interview. In theory," she adds, glancing at Fox. "No need to fret about passing the interview. We can leave the moveset to Peach; she'll mark you up fine. Any questions?"

I have hundreds. About Samus, about everyone, including Marth and Master Hand. But now, more than ever, I want to ask why the four are going to such troubles to have me enter and win. What significance am I, a dated country boy, to such a large-scale mission?

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 1**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Ta da! Does the first chapter have you hooked? I really struggle with opening chapters – I tend to waffle and fail to make it run together, but there we go. It can only get better from here (she says). Just a quick note to say that I know the Link in Brawl is based on Twilight Princess' Link, but I've opted to go for the OoT Link since he's portrayed as more of a loner in that one. TP Link has too many connections and it's not ideal for a fic like this.**

**As always, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. I haven't played OoT in a long, long time, so if anything sticks out about the Zelda franchise that doesn't make sense in this, let me know and I'll correct. Same goes for typos and any other things you'd like to say – I'm all ears.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~Byoshi**


	2. the straightforward existence

**A/N: I'm baaack! I had a hellish November participating in Nanowrimo, which I still managed to complete but only just. I really struggled to dish out the 50k this year. I've become very lazy, clearly. Anyhoo, here's chapter two for you. A big shout out of thanks to Mild Guy for such extensive feedback, and a big thank you to Marissa, whose review I forgot to reply to (because I'm forgetful as well as lazy) so here's a public mention instead! :)**

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 2 – the straightforward existence-o-o**

_Falco Lombardi had always been running on a treadmill. He supposed he always would be, ever the impatient one, squawking for others to keep up so that he didn't have to slow down. In Lylat, time was everything. Every second was of immeasurable value; every moment wasted had dire consequences. They all had to keep moving, keep going, never stopping to catch their breath. _

_Things were easier to deal with when you didn't have the time to stop and think about it. Life was good in that sense, a simple and straightforward existence, problems solved, no questions asked. If you stumbled, you got up again. You didn't sit there and cry and wonder what happened. You just dealt with it, took all the criticism and praise in stride and refused to let them be a hindrance. _

_Life was a fight for survival, a battle for a place on that conveyer belt, to stay on that treadmill. And Falco had been doing so well, until Marth Lowell came along._

**-x-**

I begin to regret my decision to join Samus' crew five hours into our flight. I'm not deterred by Falco's monotonous voice as he reads out the basics of Smash Brothers, nor am I discouraged when Fox shows me how to use modern concepts like the kettle, shower and foldaway bed. I don't mind the rickety Flyer (I almost enjoy it, in fact), the faint shrill of 'electrical' appliances, the artificial air or the glaring strip lights across the ceiling. I don't mind these at all, for they resonate with my curiosity over my fear.

What I do mind, however, is the way Samus glowers at me on seemingly random occasions. In some instances, her mouth twists into a tiny scowl and she exchanges a dark look with Falco. On others, she stares at me a moment too long with her eyebrows furrowed. I try to make a note of what offends her – walking into a glass door, turning on the tap too fast and splashing myself – and attempt to discover a pattern. So far, I can only assume that my incompetence aggravates her, but surely she understands – having said it herself – that I'm in for a culture shock. I only ask for a generous amount of patience on her part.

I conclude, more out of naïve hope , that there is something else that bothers her. I always succeed to insult her with the slightest and most innocent of movements and words, and I can't understand why. It frustrates me to know that showers and kettles and foldaway beds come with instructions. They are predictable, and after the initial mistake, they make sense.

I can't apply that logic to Samus.

**-x-**

I wake up to find out the Falcon Flyer landed a long time ago. Fox soon explains they let me sleep a little longer, to better prepare me for the gruelling task that awaits us.

"It's perfectly normal to be jittery; no Smasher likes the entry interview. Samus has it all set up for you, though. There's no chance of failure." Fox wags a spoon at me as we eat breakfast, nearly hitting Falco's beak with it. I refrain from remarking on the food's interesting taste, since the last time I did, Samus had treated me to another one of her subtle looks, although I had no intention of being offensive. She's now stood at the Flyer's head, her back turned to the window as she converses with Captain Falcon. I can hear their conversation word for word, and from the sounds of it, Falcon's concerns are fast being swept back into the closet they come from.

"I'm only asking you to consider shedding a bit of light," Falcon says. "It's not just for his sake; it's for yours too."

"That's very thoughtful of you," she answers, her voice biting, "but I'll be the judge of that."

"What about what's best for Link? Do you judge that too? Sooner or later, he's going to start asking questions—"

"Well that's just it, isn't it?" Samus interjects, and she leans back, her knee nudging the armrest of his chair. "He _doesn't_ ask questions. He just does. He's comfortable at the moment, so there's no reason to add more to his plate until it's necessary." She shakes her head, laughing lowly. "I can't understand. He's more of a yes man than you are."

"I agree. But you don't compare him to me, do you?"

She glances at me. I only just manage to steer my gaze back onto Fox, who is still talking to me.

"—assuming Peach got Mewtwo in line, he'll greet you at the Tournament Grounds and direct you from there. Oh and by the way, he's not a mind reader, okay? It just feels that way because he's scarily observant. It's unnerving, though, I'll give you that."

I somehow convince Fox I'm following, despite having been looking elsewhere. (I am certain that even if I did give Fox my undivided attention, I'd have failed to keep up with the speed at which he talked.) I dare to let my gaze wander round the cockpit, coincidentally resting on Samus. She stares back at me with a blank look. Then, in a move so abrupt that it makes everyone else fall still, she swings herself onto her feet, marches forwards and beckons for me to follow.

"Breakfast's over," she instructs. She seizes hold of various papers. "You can stay here, Fox. I'll take him instead."

"Y'sure?" Fox says through a mouthful. "If you get scheen—"

Samus doesn't need to reply, not when Falcon readily does it for her. She scales the ladder out of the Flyer.

"It's worse if you get spotted. You're meant to be his rival." Falcon turns to me, making a wild gesture with his left arm and clapping my shoulder. "Quickly, Link! She won't wait up for you. Oh, and good luck with the interview. Just keep calm and listen to Mewtwo."

I follow hurriedly. I forget my sword and have to double back, by which time she has already leapt off the roof and started walking. The Flyer is parked in a clearing in a large wood which, if it wasn't for the lack of any sign of life, I would have mistaken as part of Hyrule.

Samus' walk is brisk, such that I have to once again break into a half-run in order to stay at her side. It takes effort, and this and the lack of clarity of my situation make it difficult to appreciate where I am. Usually, I would have ensured that I took the time to let the sunlight beat down on my face, taken in the bitter smell of pine and felt the cool breeze push me forwards. I wonder what compels Samus to ignore such wonderments.

"Your ears," she says abruptly. She doesn't slow her pace, suggesting she wants answers as quick as she walks. "Do you hear things from far away? Is everything amplified?"

I blink, unsure of how to reply. I can't compare my hearing to anyone else's; I don't know if my ears are better or worse. Samus doesn't wait for an answer anyway.

"You'll need plugs," she continues. "Remind me about that."

"I will," I answer, even though I don't understand what she means at all. I catch the opportunity as it arises, however. Samus clearly hadn't been expecting me to be able to overhear her talk with Falcon. And because I had heard, it means I can ask things that I previously wouldn't have.

"Would you rather I was not a yes man?"

She purses her lips. Her steps grow a tad shorter, and she glances down at me as if she has just realised I'm there. Rows of trees pass us in a green blur, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the feeling of being lost.

"It must be nice where you're from," she remarks finally. "You said to me you have no qualms about defeating Master Hand. Is that how it works in Hyrule? Someone points out a bad guy, and you go and deal with it?"

That is it, in essence. I followed orders to protect Hyrule and its people, because someone had to. I am proud of what I accomplished, and even if her words sting in their truth, I can justify myself simply by taking her back to Hyrule.

"Ganondorf was evil in every aspect," I answer. "He made this very clear."

"That's why I said it must be nice." And to my surprise, she comes to a halt and favours me with a wry smile. "You don't question, because you don't feel the need to. Where you're from, the evil ones announce nice and clear what side they're on; they trample through your villages, kill innocent people and start fires to extinguish any doubt you might have. Things are black and white, wonderfully straightforward. It's not like that here, Link."

She holds out my application pack and I take it. My fingers brush across her cold, metallic ones, and though I know she feels nothing, her hand twitches anyway.

"Over here, the bad people aren't easy to find. They're in disguise, often as good people with honourable deeds behind them. They don't make themselves obvious and thanks to this, the ones who challenge them look like the ones in the wrong instead. I doubt anyone in Hyrule thought you were at fault when you challenged Ganondorf. You'll find evil was one of the first things that evolved as time went on. What I'm saying is that by siding with me, you can quite easily be seen as the enemy. I'll let you decide for yourself if this is the case, once you become a Smasher."

"But you tackle Master Hand for legitimate reasons," I counter. I am left quite shocked at how quickly I leap to her defence. My lonely years in Hyrule have affected me such that I desperately want Samus and her crew to be my friends, to earn a place next to them. "You have an explanation as to why you fight him. I will qualify for the Smash Brothers in faith that you will disclose this knowledge."

"It's a deal. I'll tell you everything you want to know once you're through." She taps the pack, ushering me forwards. "This is as far as I can go, I'm afraid. If you keep walking from here, you'll reach the Tournament Grounds. Mewtwo will collect you, though I use that term loosely. You do remember the lie?"

I nod, casting the way ahead a cautious glance. It's the sort of forest I expect to be rife with creatures, but my ears only pick up on the wind and Samus' steady breathing. "That I'm not working with you."

"Exactly," she says, giving me what could have been a shifty look. "Not a word about any of us."

I don't move from my spot. She raises an eyebrow at me and prompts, "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," I reply. "Do I…annoy you, in some way?"

"No," she says. "You're just…I don't know how to put it. Just that sometimes, it hurts to look at you. Anything else?"

I shake my head and begin to walk, slowly, half-waiting for her to turn and leave me. She never does, and I'm quite grateful for that. While I am undoubtedly used to trekking into the unknown without company, the fact that I can turn and see the giant orange suit between trunks and overhanging branches is reassuring. In addition, it means I can take comfort in knowing that she isn't desperate to escape from me so soon. I want to ask why she insists I keep quiet about her and especially, what it is about me that aggravates her so much; so far I have refrained from asking not just out of courtesy to the promise we made, but because I'm not certain I want to hear.

The wood thickens at some points and thins at others. I find myself wondering if this is all a trick and I am wandering aimlessly for someone's satisfaction, when I notice the soil is steadily becoming sandy and lighter. I approach the forest's end, arriving at a wide space that, despite its exposure, doesn't attract much sun at all. Before me stands the reason for this – a cluster of buildings that I can only assume is the Tournament Grounds.

I stand in awe for some seconds, amazed at the size and sculpture. I can barely compare it to the Desert Colossus which, in a similar fashion to Hyrule Kingdom, has now been downsized when put next to Samus' world. The centre building has a similar flow of steps to the Colossus, a needless cascade of them that lead to a set of giant doors. This main building is metallic and open roofed, a stark contrast to the other, smaller constructions that branch off either side of it. They are bleached white and the roofs completely flat. I am dismayed to find there is little greenery, and of what there is, it is mostly enclosed in railings and circled by concrete.

I flinch a little at the faint shrill ringing in my ears, a sound I am beginning to associate with electrical items that either only I can hear, or have yet to get used to.

I glance up at a large sign, flaunting arrows and ultimately directions I can't read.

"_You want to go left._"

I whirl round, wanting to see someone but expecting nothing. After all, where do I turn to locate a voice that seems to come from within me? It's not my first time hearing voices. When I had visions of the Sages, it felt as though they were speaking through me, as though the words had always been a part of me, and I was simply remembering them.

"_There's a revolving door up ahead. Walk sharp, and grip your file tighter or else you'll drop it._"

Quite unlike the Sages, who had always been gentle with their words, this voice is pointed and unnecessarily harsh. When I follow his orders, I feel urgency and impatience in the back of my mind – emotions that are certainly not mine. I slip through the revolving door, feeling the cool air leave me. "Mewtwo?" I guess.

"_Yes. Refrain from speaking to me while you have company; talking to oneself is regarded as socially unacceptable. Just listen and act. You're in the Administrative Plaza of the Tournament Grounds. It's where you'll always go should you need to contact the supervisors of Smash Brothers. There's a desk up ahead; go there and hand in your application. And don't stare at the Toad's head; he'll find it offensive._"

I adopt a slow, sluggish walk so as to accommodate his instructions. The Toad mans a tiny reception desk boasting more electrical appliances to make my ears burn. I note (and successfully ignore) the large head, which is vaguely mushroom-like in appearance and texture. He seems friendly enough, beckoning for my papers.

"Here, let's see!" he squeaks. "Link, is it? Welcome to the Tournament Grounds! You're lucky because Her Royal Highness is sitting in on this morning's interviews, so you don't need to be nervous! I just need to process this sheet here, and you can take the rest of your pack to show Master Hand when you're called in. Take a seat!"

"_To your right_," says Mewtwo. "_Don't make conversation with the man opposite you. Pick up a magazine and start reading_." When I am about to point out a flaw in this, he adds, "_Just pretend, then._"

I sit down, grunting in surprise at the sponginess of the sofa. It virtually swallows me up and I find myself unwillingly thinking about slimy Like Likes. With my knees higher than my lap, my arms flail out to find balance. I hear Mewtwo scoff and utter, "_Do they not have sofas in Hyrule?_"

"Not ones like this," I say. Mewtwo sighs, and I suddenly remember I have company. The man opposite me glances up, his face worn and virtually hidden behind a mass of facial hair. "It isn't so luxurious in Hyrule," I correct. "It's not as lavish…"

I gesture (half-wanting it to go amiss) in an arc to the sofa's curved armrest, the reflective chandelier above us and the oval edge table.

"It is quite overcompensating," the man replies politely, and he resumes rereading his application pack.

I study him using the glass panel that is the edge table's surface. He is a scruffy, middle-aged man who looks the sort of person who fares better the unhealthier he is. His attire is vaguely like mine and designed for functionality, sporting pockets, belts and straps. Even from this distance – six or seven feet – and with a flowering plant between us, I can detect a bitter, sharp smell about him. He mirrors the way I sit, knees set apart, elbows resting on them, his papers balanced on his hands.

Vaguely – though I will later realise I actually thought quite hard about this – I wonder why he is signing up for Smash Brothers when he peruses his application pack with a look of disgust.

"_He's rather odd. Still, we can take comfort in knowing that someone else applied at the last minute. It lifts some suspicion off you._"

The man catches me studying him, so I fight my way out of the sofa and proceed to wander round the waiting area, examining anything that catches my interest.

"_Or_," Mewtwo remarks, his voice quite surly, "_perhaps it just doubles the suspicion on him._"

Unwittingly, I glance at the stranger again. I had thought about the other competitors to the Tournament, besides Fox and Falco. What are they like? What makes _them_ compete? Are some of them like me, entering blindly on someone's behalf?

"_I thought they'd pique your interest._" Mewtwo sees, from wherever he is, that I am paying particular attention to the polished pictures adorning the wall. There are five altogether, but the centre poster in a gold frame catches my attention. I can't read the giant plaque they are gathered round, yet I can only assume that this is the line up of the Tournament. I bend, my nose practically touching the glass, my breath held in amazement at the glossiness of the picture, far unlike any painting done by a Hylian's hand.

There are too many Smashers, and my first glance is hurried as I try to take it all in at once. (In doing so, I achieve nothing.) On second glance, my gaze homes in on a tall, blue-clad figure with blonde hair swept up into a ponytail. It's Samus, as a Smasher, with the most radiant smile I have ever seen, her eyes looking distantly to her left. She looks so happy, that I find myself questioning the reliability of the picture.

"_It's a photograph_," Mewtwo comments. "_An accurate representation of a scene, created by projecting an image onto a surface that's photosensitive. Well, I say accurate, but the sky was digitally altered to be cloudless._"

She had been a Smasher, one of the competitors of this Tournament she so despises. Captain Falcon too – standing next to her with his head thrown back in a laugh – had been one. Fox and Falco are in the second to front row, both their heads turned to look behind them. Fox has all of his teeth bared in a grin of satisfaction; Falco has a face of exasperation, not unlike a harassed parent.

I'm enthralled by the scene, unable to look away from this snapshot, this split second proof of their happiness. They had liked it here and had been a part of it. Yet here I am on their behalf, preparing to take it down.

Why?

I tear my gaze away from Samus' glowing face, away from the hand that grips Falcon's shoulder to steady herself. Instead, I follow her eyes once more and realise she isn't staring out of the shot at all. She's looking directly at the man next to her. Blue-haired, his uniform sparkling, the corner of his eyes crinkled, one hand's fingers splayed out as he threatens to topple over, his elbow jutted out—

And then I smell smoke.

"First place is…that one." The bearded stranger waves a hand round in thought and then points to the middle of the picture. I'm uncomfortably surprised at how he has snuck up on me without me noticing. "That puffball, Meta Knight. He won the Tournament last year; caught the bookies and the crowd by surprise. He was a dark horse. Second place…that one there." His finger moves to the left. "Space animal, Fox McCloud. Top tier, always starts promising and tapers off towards the final. Almost as though he doesn't want to win. And third place is…" I look up to see him frowning. "Hmm. I can't quite recall. In any case, none of this is new information, is it? No one would apply for Smash Brothers without background knowledge."

He glances down at me. My jaw locks up and Mewtwo says, "_Reply, Link. Tell him you're quite sure third place went to Ike._"

"I…I'm quite sure third place went to Ike," I repeat. And though I do try, it doesn't sound spontaneous enough, and the suspicion around me is so strong that it probably smells more than his smoke. However, the stranger makes a sound of acknowledgement through his nose, refraining from putting me down any further. He begins to examine the other photographs.

"_I don't like him. He hasn't even qualified as a Smasher and already he's testing you._"

I feel foolish, unnecessarily blind. Compared to this stranger, I know nothing and am powerless because of it. I am Samus' tool to get close to Master Hand and sabotage the Tournament. Master Hand is wicked and needs seeing to – that's all I _need_ to know. What I _want_ to know is a different thing entirely.

I trust Samus, and understand that it isn't time yet for me to learn her story. I am blind, but only temporarily.

I lift my hand, clench all fingers but one into a tight fist. I rest the tip of my index finger on the cool glass, right at the blue-haired swordsman next to Samus. And I wait.

Mewtwo doesn't say anything. I know he can see me; I know he is aware of what I want. Just the tiniest sliver of light; just one layer of my blindfold to be lifted. A little something to reassure me, promise me that I am being led safely, even if I can't see.

Still, he says nothing, remaining in dignified silence. So it's just me, stuck in a web of uncertainty, and the man with blue hair, frozen forever in that graceless pose.

"_Link. You're being called_."

"Mister Link, e-excuse me! Mister…!" I start and see a Toad at my knees, tugging on the hem of my tunic. "Her Royal Highness is here to take you to your interview!"

I turn, not to be met by Princess Zelda as my thoughts first jump to, but by someone significantly shorter and pinker. Her eyes are a bright blue, unnaturally large in size and yet, the warmest, friendliest gaze I have come across since setting foot in the Falcon Flyer. When she walks, she somehow manages to combine free sauntering with a degree of cultured elegance. When she smiles, it's an unrestrained beam that seems to make everything else just that little bit brighter. She beckons with gloved hands, ushering me towards her like a mother encouraging a child.

"Hello Link, I'm Peach!" she greets. "I'm the Director of the Smash Brothers Board, in charge of administration and general management. Basically," she finishes with a sly wink, "I do the boring bits of work Master Hand doesn't want to do. Would you like to follow me?"

I do, gripping my application pack tight. I recognise Peach's name, and am certain that she is another one of Samus' associates.

From the sofa, the bearded stranger wishes me good luck, and I return the words. I rather hope I see him qualify as a Smasher; it would be good to have a familiar face around.

"_He's your enemy if he qualifies. Don't grow so attached so quickly,_" Mewtwo scolds me, as I follow Peach out of the lobby. She takes me down a long corridor boasting a clear ceiling and a gold and red themed hall. It _is_ overcompensating, I decide, but I can't help my fascination. I spot odd blocks of machinery I want to touch, the occasional locked door I want to slip behind. If this is just the front entrance, then how big is the arena itself?

"We'll save the lift for another time. You're anxious enough," Peach says, and she guides me to a flight of red carpeted stairs. "Is Mushroom Kingdom quite different to where you are from?" She taps her chin. "Hyrule, that was it. I've never heard of such a place. You say it is a Kingdom? How fascinating. Your attire is interesting. Do all people from Hyrule dress this way?"

Before I can dwell on my disappointment (for Peach talks about my Kingdom casually, ignorant of its magnificence, and I can't quite ignore it), Mewtwo interrupts my thoughts.

"_She's quite the actress, don't you think?_" he comments. "_She's watched every second of the day in here by Master Hand. It's easily the most dangerous position. While on Tournament Grounds, Peach is Master Hand's figurehead and his most valuable puppet, and she makes it her job to stick close to him. Suffice to say, Peach is limited in what she can say and do. I'm not._"

Peach opens a set of double doors, and I say, not just addressing her, "Thank you."

"_You might find Master Hand intimidating, particularly when he starts talking. I will answer any difficult questions he poses, and then you will relay them to him, filling in the communication lag with your creative means of feigned thought. That is the task Samus has given me, and I intend on carrying it out by the book. You will not answer questions by yourself, unless I expressly say so._"

I am blind, uninformed. But still, there is a warm sensation inside of me. I'm grateful, unbelievably appreciative of the new feeling of belonging. I recall Samus' laughing face frozen in that picture; Falco and Fox's assuring advice and the friendly way Falcon had clapped my shoulder. I spot my reflection in Peach's eyes as she smiles at me, and I sense Mewtwo's powerful impatience in the back of my mind.

Even so, even though they are the ones that matter, the ones I have met, it's the blue haired swordsman my mind wanders back to. Who is he and why, whenever I look at or think of him, do I suddenly feel so numb?

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 2**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Chapter two is done! I think it's a bit shoddy, but it's more of a filling-out chapter as you can tell. The layout of this fic is really awkward at the moment – please bear with me because it'll all make sense later. (She says.)**

**As usual, comments and feedback are highly appreciated. And since I'm 99.99% certain my lazy self won't update for another month or so, I'll quickly wish you all a merry Christmas and happy new year 2010. Have a good one, and thanks for reading!**

**~Byoshi**


	3. the iron fortress

**A/N: -strolls back in after two and a half years- Haha…oh my word, how late is this update…?!**

**As always, enjoy. For all you Master Hand fans out there, this is for you. –tumbleweed–**

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 3 – the iron fortress-o-o**

_As their resident pessimist, Mewtwo never rated a day above Good Enough. There were many Unremarkable days, Forgettable days, Appalling days, Disastrous days, Pointless days, and this tally of depression went on and on. _

_Of course, Mewtwo's bleak outlook was no secret. It was almost a hobby of his, to start assessing from the moment he woke up. It kept him occupied, amused and most importantly, alert. The Tournament Grounds boasted a horde of pitfalls, preying on the insecure and the susceptible; he, for one, refused to be caught unawares._

_For the most part, he succeeded. He really was an impenetrable iron fortress, a mountain that couldn't be moved. He didn't bend to wishes or weakness or idle complacency. Mewtwo soon realised – and by then, it was too late – he had shot himself in the foot, because those days that were Good Enough were actually ones that Didn't Last Long Enough._

**-x-**

I have come across many monsters and their lairs in Hyrule, from depthless, stomach-churning waters to blistering, disorienting caverns; from beasts sensed before they are seen, to monsters that even in plain view are too impossible to comprehend. I can remember my major battles and through an effortless search in my memory, I can recall and relearn the skills that have saved my life over and over again.

I'm never confident enough to dispel any fear. It's more that in the heat of battle, I forget to be afraid altogether. I tend to become disconnected, not really realising – or caring – how often and how close I run along a cliff edge.

So, standing here before a giant in his territory and reach, awaiting the first blow – it's nothing new or frightening at all. I start calculating, certain that I can unsheathe and wield my sword in the time it'd take for Master Hand to consider a strike; I know the cavernous joints of each finger are a weak point I can exploit. I trust my instinct will save me the way it has always done.

Then, a soft voice at my ear, and Peach snaps me out of my reverie.

"You're a natural born fighter, aren't you? But really, take a seat." She taps my arm, demanding that I lower my guard. I obey, biting down on the inside of my lip, concentrating on the pain rather than my impulses. I'm in a large room, the ceiling too low to be comfortable, the strip lights flickering and the air a faint but acrid smell of charcoal. I feel the room sway with the weight of decision.

To be frank, I wish for nothing more than to charge through this lair, leap onto Master Hand and drive my sword through him.

"Any seat," Peach prompts. I count twenty, maybe thirty armchairs, all dotted around the room as though someone wants the floor completely hidden. Peach takes my application pack, and sensing the impatience in this movement, I stride over to the chair directly opposite Master Hand and sit in it.

"_Well done_," Mewtwo says. "_Choosing a back seat is marked as a coward's choice._"

"A summary, please," says Master Hand. His voice, rather like Mewtwo's, is disembodied and ringing. He seems to speak from all corners, and for a reason I have yet to fathom, his very presence makes me sick to the stomach.

"This is Link." Peach perches on the edge of a long, empty desk, the only item of furniture besides the many chairs. "He comes from Hyrule Kingdom, excels in sword fighting and is what's usually recognised as a 'hero'. He vanquishes evil in the name of peace, and conquered the wicked King of Evil in a battle that shook the very foundations of Hyrule! Ganondorf was sealed in the Sacred Realm and the Kingdom now lives in eternal peace. Yet, in a bizarre twist of fate, Link's efforts go unrewarded as he regretfully discovers his selflessness quite literally wrote him out of existence…!"

Although Peach is clearly enthralled by my story, I'm under the strong impression Master Hand isn't so much. He barely moves from his spot, and when he speaks again, I can't ignore the spite in his words. "Right, stop there."

Peach obeys.

"You see a problem with this, don't you? We can't have a hero; we already have one. Mario is our selling point, _the_ biggest money maker within these walls. Link's inclusion will only highlight Mario's _lack_ of heroic qualities. I take it you killed this King of Evil?"

"_Don't bother answering; it's rhetorical_."

"Mario lets Bowser off every time. Furthermore, he hasn't done anything gallant as of late; instead, he runs around playing sports badly and signing t-shirts. _That_ is what a hero is here. It's a word synonymous with mascot."

I watch Peach drum her fingers against the table. She appears to be very used to such a brash attitude. "That's one way of looking at Mario," she agrees politely. "On the other hand, many regard him as a hero because of the way he inspires people. How many applicants have come here, telling us that Mario is the reason they want to join Smash Brothers?"

"Yes, but most – if not all – of those applicants fail to join the ranks," Master Hand counters. "Wanting to _be_ like a Smasher is a foolish and simple reason; if Link is going to join, there will be an influx of these silly wannabe heroes—"

"—which is precisely where our money comes from. I'm quite certain that if we use a combination of the marketing used for Mario and for Ike, Link will be an instant hit. We can of course adjust his moveset to stand apart from Ike's. It says here that Link has a vast field of combat."

"Is that right?" Master Hand moves away from Peach, apparently noticing me at last. "What else do you do?"

"_List your skills. Be prompt and don't elaborate on them._"

"Archery," I answer. "I also use bombs, a hookshot, a boomerang, a—"

"So dated," Master Hand interrupts. "Save for bombs, but I hardly think you're talking C4 or dynamite. A vast field of combat, yes, but ever so unnecessary."

"_He's not buying it. Now is when you elaborate. Your archery is on par with your sword skills._"

I listen and react accordingly, sitting up straighter to catch Master Hand's attention. "I am first and foremost a swordsman, but my archery is on par with these skills. I can shoot accurately from long distances, even on horseback," I plough on.

"_Good. He's already comparing you to a sniper, so—_"

"I may be dated, but my skills as an archer and your modern day sniper have similar roots, surely."

Mewtwo laughs inside my head, a low, rumbling sound that I liken to thunder in the distance. "_A little blunt, yet a reasonable point to make._"

"Hmm." Master Hand doesn't bother to disguise his offense. I realise that I have spoken out of my league, have acted beyond what I was supposed to. I start to think I'm not just following Samus' orders; a part of me senses the potential and the excitement of being a Smasher. My head feels heavy, and my hands shake with sudden restlessness.

At some point, I have decided I don't want to leave this room empty handed.

"We already have an archer – Pit, as I'm sure you know," Master Hand says carefully. Peach's smile grows a tad wider. "Admittedly, we don't have an archer and swordsman put together, complete with an arsenal. You could be a projectile-based Smasher, which may be a blessing to Smash Brothers because our projectile expert randomly decided to pack up and leave."

I catch the bitter confusion in his voice. Not only that, I become certain that in the back of my mind somewhere, Mewtwo has become quite tense.

"_Don't react_," he says, and I have to wonder if he is talking to me or himself.

Peach holds out a green file. "Link is brought to you by a small drinks company called Summertime. They have applied as his sponsors—"

"Called _what_?" says Master Hand. "Do we have a representative?"

"Yes. He's called Bart Fleming and I spoke to him this morning. He sounds very lovely. He and his wife are relying on Link to become a success in this year's Tournament and give their company—"

"Fine, fine, whatever. We only get into sponsorship if he makes the cut. Let's say you _are_ a Smasher, Link," says Master Hand. "Do you know what to expect?"

"_Wait. He's going to tell you his doubts._"

True to Mewtwo's words, Master Hand continues, his voice still layered with spite. "A lot of applicants come here thinking it's an easy ride, a year long intergalactic party of celebrity and stardom. Is that accurate? _No_!" And here, Master Hand slams himself on the floor to further his point. The thirty chairs and I jump from the rippling aftershock. "That's just the surface of the Tournament. The people here will demand the best, and they will bring out their worst as a means to get it. Behind that curtain of glamour, there's an ugly mainframe of competition and greed."

"_With him fanning the flames,_" Mewtwo remarks idly. "_He's playing the saint, so ignore all this. He wants to cast enough doubt to make you change your mind. It's his way of cutting the cowards._"

"I realise what I am getting into," I reply, although I can't quite convince anyone – not even myself. "I appreciate your warning and will remember it."

Master Hand rocks a fraction. "Seriously, are all guys from Hyrule like this? Are they all do-gooder soldiers tottering around in rose-tinted glasses, thinking every corner of the world has safety belts and cushions? How did Summertime pick this guy up? Or more to the point, how did Link ever merit a sponsor as obscure as Summertime? I thought Hyrule was a kingdom – why aren't they backing him?"

"As I said," Peach answers patiently, "he is an unsung hero. He singlehandedly prevented Hyrule from its destruction—"

"Actually, Princess Zelda helped—" I start.

"_No one's listening, so button it._"

"Which brings me to question your intent." Master Hand's voice easily drowns out my own. "In fact, I'll even tell you a secret."

"_But probably not the one we want to know_," Mewtwo comments darkly.

"You're aware of course that the Smash Brothers Tournament first started as a humble competition between eleven participants. The Second and Third Tournaments saw an influx of competitors, twenty and twenty-nine, respectively. However, come the Fourth Tournament, we've hit a wall. I've interviewed over fifty applicants this season, and that's after they were shortlisted. We're talking pilots, racers, warriors, heroes, the whole shebang. I haven't sent out an offer to _any_ of them."

Here, Peach grimaces and shuffles uncomfortably, and it also marks first time since I have set foot in this room, that I think maybe a nobody from Hyrule isn't going to be enough.

"I've heard it all before, you see. Let me guess. You have nothing to do in Hyrule, so you're here to find purpose. It's either that, or it's fame, credit, money, glory, boredom or bloodlust. Surprise me. Give me a reason for coming here which isn't anything I've ever heard before."

"Well…" I start, if only to fill in the silence. It's fast becoming difficult to concentrate with Mewtwo barking in the back of my mind ("_Don't tell him the truth, whatever you do. Tell him you're here as a bridge between the old and new. Tell him you're here to introduce the rest of the universe to the glory of Hyrule._").

"That's not why I'm here," I disagree – with Mewtwo, with Master Hand, even with the doubt in the back of my mind. "I'm not applying through any desire of my own. I…"

"_You're here to put your Kingdom on the map, Link. No one's said anything that gracious before, so say it!_"

It has only been a few days, yet when I shut my eyes to picture the castle and the rolling hills, I also inadvertently imagine the Falcon Flyer cruising in the smouldering sunset. I remember the stacks of paper and notes, detailing our mission in a mix of illegible scrawls and angular text, and I remember the group photo with all of my friends at the core of the very place they want to tear down.

"It's a favour," I reply finally. "I was asked, so…I agreed."

"You're here as a favour?" Master Hand rolls the words over, a tad more convinced than I am. "Interesting reply. I have yet to meet anyone who's worth going into a Smash Tournament for. More to the point, I've now met someone foolish enough to enter at the mere request of someone. Peach!" he concludes abruptly. "Show him out and send up the last applicant."

"Follow me." Peach pushes herself off the desk, takes up her skirts an inch and weaves through the cluster of chairs with ease. Afraid that anything I say will blow our cover, I opt to keep quiet until we reach the lobby.

"That went well, didn't it?" she remarks. "You'll hear from us within the next two days. Now I understand your sponsor has a townhouse rented out in Mushroom Kingdom. We'll contact your sponsor with the results of your interview. If you receive an offer, you must sign and return the contract to the administration office within three days. Should you decide to decline your offer, there will be a number there you can call. If you are rejected, don't be down. There's always next year! Regardless of the outcome, the Smash Board looks forward to seeing you next week at the Fourth Smash Brothers Tournament!"

She recites her departing words with mechanical enthusiasm, and with a quick point to the exit, she turns on her heel and walks to the waiting lounge. I hover around the foyer long enough to hear her say, "And finally…Mr. Snake, is it? Right this way please."

I wriggle through the revolving doors to step back into the afternoon sun. The Tournament Grounds are desolate and scorching in the heat. I'm left in a bit of a daze as I wander back down the way I have come, eyeing the foreign signposts.

"_Head back the way you came. So past the garages and down the forested side route. I'm going to explain how you reach the centre of Mushroom Kingdom and your sponsor's headquarters._"

"Thank you; I appreciate it."

"_I know you do. You'd appreciate it if someone came up to you and spat in your face. I reject anything Master Hand says by default, but the question he raised about the people of Hyrule was actually justified. Are you all pushovers?_"

"I just like being useful."

"_Then stay alert as you follow my instructions. You need to memorise this journey, from Tournament Grounds to your sponsor's headquarters. It's a simple trek. A complex web of six tram routes connects every important location in the Kingdom's centre. Every route links to the Tournament Grounds anyway, so you don't need to make any changes. Simply get on the green tram and stay on it until Star Square is announced. That's where you get off. From there, head down the cobbled road for about three minutes until you reach a semicircle of houses. You'll know which one to enter when you get there. Have you got this memorised? I have to leave you for a half hour, so you really will be on your own._"

I nod. "Where do you have to go?"

"_I need to report back to Summertime and let them know you're coming. I'll tell you, though, this final applicant – Snake – is worthy of note. He seems to be interviewing Master Hand, as opposed to the other way round. If Samus doesn't keep her head screwed on, he might become a hiccup in our plans._"

I blink a few times and look behind me. "Are you still back at the Tournament Grounds? I thought you were following me."

Mewtwo laughs, and it might be genuine. "_I haven't moved an inch._"

**-x-**

I see him again on the green tram to Star Square. I am squashed into the carriage and gripping a gold bar to stop being pushed out, and in the short space of time when I'm not admiring the colourful surroundings of the bustling town, I look over a Toad's head at his magazine and spot him.

All over, I have seen what I can only assume is the Smash Brothers logo: a circle unevenly cut into four by two intersecting lines. This logo is plastered on banners that hang from windows and street lamps; it's also emblazoned on the outside of this very tram. When I glance at the magazine (which is adorned with the Smash Brothers insignia) and see that blue-haired swordsman printed on its page, I guess out loud, "Is he a Smasher?"

The Toad looks up at me, too excitable for it to ever occur to him I'm being a little discourteous. "Not anymore he isn't," he squeaks. "It was announced last week that he decided to retire. Rumour has it he's gone home to get married, but still! It was so abrupt, no personal announcement or appearance at all. Not even the media managed to predict that move, and they're usually very good."

"He finished Smash Brothers on a low," another Toad contributes. "Everyone thought he'd be back this year to repair his reputation."

"Reputation?" I say.

"_Quarter final_," a third Toad says slowly. He pulls a face of digust but I don't know if it's aimed at me. "I went to that game, I did. Colossal waste of money!"

"It saddens me when people say that," the first Toad replies. He rolls up his magazine and shakes it around. "It's people like you who made him retire; you put him in between a rock and a hard place. Here, take it, I insist." He thrusts the magazine into the side of my leg. "You sound like you need educating."

When the tram calls out, "Star Square!" I step off, thank him and immediately open the magazine. I can't read a word, but every flick of the page pushes the scope of my understanding a little further. Essentially, the Smash Brothers Tournament looks so dynamic and unlike anything I have ever seen, and I am going to have to concentrate if I want to win, yet I can't understand why my gaze always zeroes in on that Smasher from Altea.

Maybe I've met him before.

At the semicircle of houses, I am caught off-guard by a pleasant surprise. Mewtwo has conveniently neglected to tell me how I'd definitely recognise the right house: it's been signposted in Hylian.

_Summertime_

_Proud Sponsor of The Unsung Hero, Link_

a smooth board reads. I run up to the sign and trace the shallow arcs and gentle flicks of the text. It almost aches to be reminded of home, and so abruptly at that, but a grin works its way onto my face regardless.

"What do you think?" says a voice. I look to the doorway and am surprised for a second time, when Samus gives a tiny wave. "Is it legible? It's my first attempt at writing Hylian."

"It's perfect," I breathe. "How did you learn it so fast? And your handwriting…it's faultless."

"Ah. Admittedly, I had some technological help, namely a vector program and a silhouette plotter. I'm currently using dodgy translation software from Lylat to understand Hylian. Perhaps when you're not training or fighting, you could spare some time and teach it to me properly. Now come inside; I can't hover at this door too long as the cloaking barrier's still in beta." She shuts the door after me with a foot.

"I don't understand. I was told I'd find my sponsor here."

She blinks, before favouring me with a smile I could get used to. "You're looking at her."

I nearly drop the magazine I'm holding. "You're Summertime?"

She blinks again, as though it takes her a few seconds to comprehend what I'm saying. "Half of," she clarifies. "The other half's sitting in the front room creating prototype sports drinks."

"Come on in, Link." Falcon sticks his head round another door. The front room appears to be a cross between a dining room and a work studio. Samus has already started pinning more paper and notes from the table to the wall. I try to assist by passing her the sheets, but she shoots a look at me.

"Excellent job, really excellent," says Falcon. "Mewtwo said he didn't have to prompt you much at all."

"In all fairness, a lot of that interview was Master Hand complaining. Poor guy needs to vent." Samus takes my magazine and collapses into an armchair, shaking it open. "That statistic Master Hand reported back is true. Fifty applicants and not one of them promising; Roy applied again, only to get rejected. If anything, Master Hand will let Link qualify out of desperation, and that Snake guy too."

"So, to business." Falcon pulls out a footrest from under Samus' armchair and sits on it precariously. He seems to be involved in an odd task of taking bottles out of a tightly-packed box and wrapping a colourful label around each one. "Now that the interview's out the way, we can focus on the next step. We're your Smash sponsor, Summertime. We're a small sports drink company—" he waves one of the bottles "—looking to profit by sponsoring one newcomer Smasher – namely, you. We cover the costs of everything, from your medical bill and living expenses to what you last bought at a vending machine. Normally, sponsors look to use famous and powerful figures to sell themselves, but that's irrelevant to us."

"Summertime's a fake company," Samus chips in. "It'll only exist as much as it needs to. You don't need to know the specifics, but ultimately, Falcon – since he's so good at creating false identities – has manufactured a sponsor real enough to fool Master Hand. Normally, sponsors rent a building or suite owned by the Smash Board for the convenience of location. You, however, have your base set up here, away from the Tournament Grounds.

"This is mainly for two reasons," says Falcon. "First, it enables Samus and I to keep in touch without being seen. Second, the basement – which holds your training room – connects to an underground tunnel which we recently converted into a hangar. The Flyer's parked there so when you have weekends off, you can fly overnight and arrive at Hyrule by morning. You know, in case you feel homesick."

Here, Falcon pulls a face, a strange cross between apprehension and empathy. "In our experience, Smashers aren't born and bred fighting machines with battle as their sole purpose. They're still connected to their old worlds and lives, and it's especially important we don't take that away from you."

I flick my gaze across the room at Samus. She's still listening to the conversation, but she doesn't seem to be taking it in at all. There is definitely a pattern to her seemingly random changes in temperament and behaviour. She's critical of me one moment and admiring the next. The way she watches me, either waiting to catch me out or smile at my actions – I can't put my finger on it. It's almost as though she's not really aware it's me in front of her.

"We can't do anything until the rest of us get here," says Samus. "That'll be late evening, so in the meantime, we might as well stick more labels to these bottles."

She nudges a box towards me and, perhaps noticing my uncertainty, she adds, "What is it?"

"Just…something I don't understand," I admit. "You have asked me to enter and win the Smash Tournament, and I will do it, I promise. But you haven't explained what it has to be me. While waiting for my interview, I saw a photo. Both of you were Smashers. Why leave in the first place, if your aim has only ever been to win?"

"Because I can't be your sponsor and a Smasher at the same time."

"I think what Link means is why he's the one doing it instead of us," Falcon clarifies, and though his tone is so kind, Samus' lips twist as though she has been burned. "It's not fair to keep him in the dark. It's not doing you any good either. You know which photo he saw. Mewtwo expressly made a point of it. Of course Link's going to ask about—"

She stands up, wordlessly silencing Falcon. Were it not for the sudden vulnerability in her eyes, I would have mistaken that for a battle stance. She flicks to a certain page in the magazine, before handing it over to me.

"…This person?" she says flatly. Her grip on the pages tightens. "He's called Marth, and this old picture, and this article proclaiming he left in a cloud of shame, doesn't do justice to the greatest man we ever knew."

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 3**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: So yeah…I fail at updating, but I actually know where I'm heading with this fic and have some rekindled interest in Smash Bros after facing writer's block with another fandom. I doubt anyone is still reading this fic because it's so old, but any comments will be gratefully received by an author wondering if she should keep writing it XD**

**On a random note, I switched this fic from past tense to present, not that anyone cares ;p Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!**

**~Byoshi**


	4. the plastic smile

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's and hopefully won't be getting much of a part in this fic anyway.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 4 – the plastic smile-o-o**

_When educating her on the business that was royalty, her father used to say a princess' smile wasn't a feature – it was a product. One smile, he used to say, and people would feel they were at the heart of the universe. They'd remember how to hope and dream and most of all, forgive. When Archibald Toadstool asked for the second Smash Tournament to be held at Mushroom Kingdom, his influential daughter was the first thing Master Hand demanded as payment._

_As far as they were concerned, Peach was a malleable piece of plastic, designed to pave the way to profit and riches. She had no right to intellect or depth. She was merely a beautiful figurehead, a glamorous, distracting painting on the facet of the Tournament and its host. _

_Marth Lowell never stood for it. Just once, he held her hands and swept away her thoughts with a smile devoid of cold metal and cogs; and like a big brother with his innate ability to protect his sister, he set her free._

**-x-**

I wake up in a cold sweat.

I cough at the strong smell of sandalwood and amber and cringe when the rough pillow scrapes at my cheeks. After a few goes, I manage to wrench my eyelids open. The back of my shirt is completely soaked.

In a bit of a daze, I rewind and sift through my hours asleep. I recall fretful turns in bed and blurred nightmares, but they are just the cover to a book whose insides I can't remember. More surprised than understanding of my fatigue, I heave myself out of bed, prompting a loud thud, and crawl over to the toilet to throw up.

"Oh Link," someone says in a loud whisper. I hear hasty footfalls, sense a light burning my eyes and although at this time I can hardly comprehend what is going on, the effect of a hand running up and down my back makes me gasp with relief. "Oh you poor dear," she murmurs. "You've settled into the team so perfectly that we've all forgotten you're from so far away."

I recognise the voice and the large blue eyes I force myself to find in the dark.

"Do you remember me?" she asks. "It's Peach. Come, I'll take you downstairs and make you a warm drink."

I stagger, weak at the knees and sore all over. Once or twice, I convulse and think I'm going to be sick again, but Peach makes no move to leave my side. She sets me down on the sofa and there is the audible sound of her plumping a pillow.

"Mewtwo can pick up on changes in brain activity," Peach explains. She's only in the kitchen, but it feels as though she's speaking from behind a wall. With semi-blind eyes and a barely functioning mind, I make out a giant, imposing figure by the bay window. "You're suffering from a bit of culture shock, and rightly so. It's not just technology that's foreign; it's everything, from the food you eat to the air you breathe. You must miss Hyrule. You must long for the small things that remind you of home and normality, and to suddenly discover you are at the mercy of this environment is surely terrifying."

A steaming drink floats up to my lips, and the liquid burns my throat. "But it's going to be okay, Link," she murmurs. "Marth was exactly the same when he came over, and a few days later, he pulled through. I'm not supposed to talk about him." She giggles nervously at her disobedience and covers her mouth with her hand. "But your recovery is important, and Marth is the greatest reassurance you can have. Shh now," she whispers, as I try to form some words. "You need to rest. I'll have a word with Samus. She's an expert at vengeance, bless her, but she does often forget to ask the crucial questions."

"I'll be all right," I attempt to say. Peach's finger finds my lips again.

"Ssh. Not another word. Mewtwo, perhaps you could drop him into dreamless sleep?"

A shadow moves in my peripheral vision, and I wriggle in panic and horror, as the last thing I see before I succumb to sleep is a monstrous set of violet eyes.

**-x-**

"Peach was here." Captain Falcon begins to pick up incriminating pieces of evidence in turn: a flowery teacup, two boxes with pink ribbon and a large cherry cake.

"Mewtwo was here too." Falco slams the fridge door shut and I start, stirring out of a nap. "All the milk's gone."

Samus shakes the newspaper so that the top folds over. "I had a word with them just before they left. They had to get back quickly because Master Hand needs them this morning. Peach wanted to draw my attention to the fact Link actually isn't feeling well. That's why you're making soup, Fox."

"Oh, that's what I'm making, is it?" He wobbles on the stool precariously, stirring with a ladle almost as big as him. "You could have fooled me. Does gloopy soup cure culture shock?"

"I'm fine, I promise. I'm not homesick; merely adjusting," I croak, but Falco smacks a wing into my face, forcing me to lie back down on the sofa.

"I realise we have asked so much of you without consideration for your health or interests." Samus gets up and approaches the sofa cautiously. "I promised I'd tell you everything you want to know as soon as you qualified." She takes the two boxes Peach has left us and lifts the lids. "Well, these prototype uniforms confirm you've made it as a Smasher." Behind her, Fox and Falcon start to clap, but Samus cuts them off. "So, it's only fair I uphold my end of the bargain."

I fight off Falco and sit up. The prospect of no longer being the only blind member of the team is so heartening, my sickness might have ebbed completely. "Really?"

Samus nods. "We have a lot to get through, however. It's only four days until the start of the Tournament. We need to determine a moveset to present to Master Hand, confirm uniforms for general and team play, decide on Summertime's official ad, get you acquainted with your enemies and decide on a partner target." Samus rubs the back of her neck, a little perturbed by how much more work needs to be done. "Thankfully, by this evening, Peach and Mewtwo will be free. Therefore, upon their arrival at the hangar, we're going to head back to Hyrule tonight. Relax, Link," she adds, seeing my face, "it's not a one-way trip."

She circles the sofa and leans on its back and by doing this, she faces everyone in the team. "We're stopping at Hyrule, firstly to let Link pack his bags for the Tournament and secondly, to collect and transport the horse to the Tournament Grounds."

My head jerks up. "Is that all right? If it causes trouble—"

"It's no problem," says Falcon. "The Flyer can have one room converted into a comfy stable easily. I wager that horse is key to making you feel you're at home."

"Once we leave Hyrule, we'll make a detour." Samus rests her forearms on the back of the sofa and her head dips a little in what might be an act of self defence. "We'll visit Marth."

There is an edgy silence, where most eyes turn to me and back to Samus again. I suppose everyone is waiting for me to question this mysterious detour now that I have the certainty of hearing answers, but I can't seem to form a query. I know this is my chance to find out about the blue-haired swordsman whose name keeps slipping into conversations. Yet one look at Samus' broken stoicism, to see her eyeing the ceiling and chewing the corner of her lip, and my curiosity subsides. I am utterly convinced my voice will shatter her. So I stay silent, stay ignorant for a bit longer if that is the kinder route.

She rewards me with a grateful smile that lingers at the back of my mind like a restless ghost.

**-x-**

The hangar that houses the Falcon Flyer is a giant tunnel that exits out from Mushroom Kingdom to skim over an ocean. Its ceiling is marred with glaring strip lights and the Flyer's start up engines send currents of strong wind round the dusty floor.

Peach is already waiting when we arrive. She has three large suitcases with her (all an eye-watering shade of pink) and on seeing us, she runs over and pulls me into a back breaking hug.

"Oh gosh, you have no idea how long I have wanted to do that! The first time we met, we were playing ignorant and the second, you were too sick to remember me. Congratulations on your qualifying! I knew the moment I saw you in that reception, as _soon _as you turned round, you were going to pass with flying colours. Oh look! You even smile when you're confused. Oh!" She covers her mouth with both hands as Falco shoots her a look, and she quickly amends, "I'm doing it again. Shh, forget I said anything. Captain, can you assist?"

She hauls her luggage over to the Flyer's rear entrance. "I promise you, these aren't just my things," she pants, pushing each case up the gangway for a horrified Falcon to collect. "I have Link's prototype uniforms inside. The ones I sent you are substandard. No, the one I have selected is perfect!" She picks up her skirts and runs to wheel me over like a display piece. "It's a simple green tunic, but I added chainmail underneath, with tantalising strips peeking out here—" she slaps my collarbone and I wince "—here—" now on my arm "—and here." She pokes my thigh and nods with satisfaction. "It oozes of modest heroism and refined but humble skill."

"Yeah, that's great and everything, but let's discuss fashion when we're actually in the Flyer and travelling," says Fox.

Peach saunters up the gangway; the others use the roof hatch. I follow in Peach's wake, and although I don't think a princess should be walking amongst the cargo, she looks utterly at home.

"It must be difficult to have two conflicting roles," I comment.

"It is a little," she admits politely, "but when Samus announced what she wanted to do, it was me who set the ball rolling. I realised to what good use I could put my authority as Director. Besides, Samus needs Mewtwo at the core of the plan, so I hardly had a choice. That reminds me! You haven't met Mewtwo yet, have you?" She seizes my elbow and drags me down the full length of the Flyer until we reach the cockpit. Falco and Fox are at the table, both tapping their fingers impatiently. Before I can take note of the tenseness around Samus and Falcon's conversation, Peach wheels me to face a giant biped cat with his mouth clamped round a pint of milk. "Ta da! The Pokemon behind the voice. Link, this is Mewtwo."

"_The pleasure's all mine._" His mouth doesn't move, but his violet gaze finds me easily. The milk bottle, now nestled comfortably in a blue glow, floats into the kitchen sink. "_I have only been fortunate enough to meet you using six malfunctioning computer monitors and a microphone of questionable quality._"

"It's good to meet you." I hold out my hand, but Mewtwo just blinks.

"Mewtwo guided you through your interview using CCTV," Peach explains. "He patched into the Grounds' network in order to do this. Mewtwo is effectively the Grounds' security system, so as long as you're in sight, Mewtwo can always communicate with you."

"Which is fantastic, because telepathy is the only form of communication that can't be detected." Fox swivels round on his chair. "Sit down, Link, because Peach is going to explode if you don't let her start Fashion 101."

"Do not trivialise my role," says Peach, flicking open her case and taking out rather a lot of tunics. "Image is crucial in Smash Brothers. It's _the_ social event of vanity and profit. As I said, the chainmail look is perfect for Link. The solitary traveller persona is not an unused concept, but it typically grabs the public's attention from the start. Precedents include Meta Knight and Samus over there. Now, Master Hand has expressed a particular interest in you being a projectile-based Smasher, so we will devise your moveset to adhere to this." She drops into a seat and Fox passes her a cup of tea.

"Drink?" Fox asks me.

"Just milk, if that's all right?"

A bottle, its lid already peeled back, skids across the table into my hands. Mewtwo takes three strides to stand at the table. Falcon and Samus join a few seconds after, and now every seat at the table is occupied.

"I'll explain the moveset, if that's okay." Falco catches everyone off guard with his temporary cooperation. "Your moveset is as its name dictates: it's your set of unique and predetermined moves for Smash battles. Smash matches are simulated; that way, the game pieces last longer. Each Smasher's moveset is determined by his sponsor, Master Hand and Peach. Luckily, that means we're two against one for swaying it to your favour. Consider each Smasher's moveset to be on a pentagonal chart spanning particular categories: speed, fall, jump, lag time, power and recovery."

"Yeah, if a pentagonal chart had six points," Falcon mutters, counting on his fingers. He nudges my elbow when he spots my difficulty in understanding. "Let it go over your head. All you need to know is that your moveset is in safe hands."

"The Tournament, however, might not be," says Samus. "Besides Link, Snake is the only other person who got in. He applied for the Tournament without a sponsor. When an applicant does this," she explains to me, "he's either a nobody or he has something to hide. Still, that Snake is the only other newcomer does not make him your friend, Link."

I try to disguise my happiness as a nod of understanding. The prospect of entering the Smash Tournament isn't nearly as unnerving when I know there will be someone else in the same situation.

"The Tournament is in the exact same format as last year." Fox stands up on his chair to pass me a diagram. "I'll try and explain it in a way that doesn't confuse you. Basically, the Tournament is split into three parts over the course of nine months. It opens next week – May – and finishes in February with the final. The first part is the Preliminaries. Falco would call it your dossing period. You can try out your moveset, experiment on various maps, enter side games for starter points and get to know the other Smashers. This is the best time to select your Smash partner. After the Preliminaries close, it's the Qualifying Round. This year, there are twenty-eight Smashers." Fox holds up a complicated work table with coloured boxes. "The Qualifying Round whittles down these twenty-eight into sixteen. We need you to be one of those sixteen."

Fox grins and sits back in his seat. "In the Qualifying Round, you compete in a number of solo and team matches. You score points by obtaining victory and also for match kills. That's where it becomes important to pick your partner wisely. In team matches, your partner may happily assist in scoring a win, but they are also liable to steal kill points from you, if you present the opportunity."

"_Ideally, you want a fast but weak partner who isn't bothered about making it into the final sixteen._" Mewtwo's tail flicks with impatience, as though he is put off by his own voice. I am still getting used to his beast-like form and associating the pragmatic voice to him. "_Yoshi and Ness are the viable options_."

"They're my two picks too," says Samus. "They can give you a leg up into the final stage. Once you're through the Qualifying Round, you're a Tournament Smasher. That's where Fox and Falco come in."

"We basically clear the route and indiscriminately drop out," says Falco. He pushes a sheet of paper towards me, which shows a tree-like chart with angular branches. "Fox and I will be in that lineup of sixteen. We go through the Tournament with you and do our best to knock out any Smashers who might threaten your route to victory. Then we'll make a graceful exit and push you to the final." He begins to jab at certain boxes. "So we'll remove threats like him…him…that horrid thing there…"

"And once I get to the final, I just need to win? What of Master Hand? Should I kill him?"

"Nope, stealing first place is all you need to do. Taking that from Master Hand the grand manipulator is a bigger 'up yours' that even a giant hand would struggle to top." Falcon claps my shoulder and smiles. "Once you win, you gain access to the Hall of Fame. Then the mission is complete. What do you think, Link?"

My fingers inch towards the tournament layout. It might be nerves or it might even be excitement, pulsing through my body to escape as an unsteady smile. I don't have the whole picture, but I have never been rendered incapable with pinhole vision – the Sages of Hyrule can attest to this.

I take the tournament plan and tuck it into my pocket. "Leave it to me."

**-x-**

For some of the flight to Hyrule, Peach gets me to draw and describe my arsenal when I was the Hero of Time, so that she can incorporate their designs into my Smash uniform. ("Gosh, that's rather plain," she says of the Hylian Shield, "I think I'll spice it up at bit before sending it as a request.") It's a soothing journey, and excluding that hour with Peach, it's also quite solitary. I spend my time writing down the Tournament mechanics in Hylian and poring through a magazine, trying to match Smashers with the names I've heard. Once or twice, Marth shows up, and I absently wonder if he will mind having a team of seven randomly dropping in on him.

Samus sits at the Flyer's cockpit with Falcon. Both of them have their legs propped up on the control panel, and they talk to one another while staring out the window. They only spare a polite glance every now and then. Surveying such a scene, I am left feeling resigned, knowing that there is still a whole lot more about this world and its customs I have yet to learn.

"What was the horse's name again?" I catch Falcon asking.

"I don't know. I don't think he mentioned it," answers Samus.

"…Forgive me for asking, but does it make sense? Fetching the horse and _then_ going to Marth?" Again, Falcon seemingly talks to the window. I dip my head down and carry on drawing, in case they turn to see me eavesdropping.

"Yes it makes sense, because the horse and the idea of home still being within reach will comfort him enough to accept Marth. Don't tell me I haven't thought this through."

"Oh, you've thought it through all right, but you've put a shadow of doubt over Link the whole time. He's a good guy, Samus. He might not account for much in independence, yet he's got good enough insight to understand the bigger picture. Marth isn't going to faze him."

She sighs. "Any sane person would have second thoughts. What's the merit in taking him to Marth first?"

"It saves me from doing a return journey at the very least," Falcon jokes, but he doesn't sound happy at all. "Look, what I'm trying suggest is a bit of perspective. Link's perspective, to be precise. You can't string him along any longer without causing damage to your level of friendship and trust with him. It's not fair on Link to be ignored and might I respectfully add, it's not fair on Marth either. You never know, Link might deeply resent you for being so secretive. And Sam, it'd do you good as well. You need to talk."

There is an awkward pause. Then, Samus sighs for the second time and relents. "Fine. But if he does do a bunk, I'm holding you responsible."

I carry on pretending I am oblivious to Falcon making a move to change the Flyer's flight path. Samus procrastinates – for hours, it feels like – and when I am least expecting it (for I am a little carried away in shading my drawing of the hookshot), she drops into the seat next to me. I watch her reflection locked away in the metallic surface of the table, noting the absence of fidgeting, as though she is either frozen in time or utterly unaffected by me. Still, in the silence between us, there is the feeling of foreboding and gravity, and I find myself wondering just what kind of secret she is guarding.

"They're good," she remarks of my drawings. She attempts to sound spontaneous, but I know she has been stewing over it, as unskilled as I am in starting conversations. "Funny, isn't it, how quickly you can recall the things you mean to let go. You tell yourself to get up and move on, but the pull back to the past is so strong. You miss it? Being a hero?" Her fingers follow the smooth outline of the Hylian Shield.

I challenge her blank stare with a flat look of my own. "I miss the adventure. What about you? What is it about your past that pulls you back?"

She very nearly smiles, and she very nearly answers. Then, all plausibility of her admitting what is eating her up inside disappears in the blink of an eye. It leaves a prickly moment of quiet in a similar fashion to Peach's earlier parapraxes. "There's been a change in plan," she says finally.

"I know. I'm afraid I heard you."

Her eyes narrow a fraction before they dart to my ears. "Ah," she murmurs, marginally impressed. "I keep forgetting. You can probably tell then that Falcon's too meddlesome for his own good."

She sits back in her seat and surveys me, not unlike a bird of prey figuring out a mouse's next move. Now that Falcon has inadvertently drawn my attention to her secrecy, I'm rather bothered by it, from the deadpan stare through the table to the way she talks away from my gaze. There isn't anything to her actions, not even the raw emotion of anger. There is simply nothing, as though she has forgotten her purpose and, in its wake, lost her bearings and all sense of reasoning.

I suddenly find myself able to empathise.

"…What is your story?" I make a brave stab at conversation, if only to stop her from scrutinising me any more. "What is everyone's story?"

"Why is a motley crew of Smashers and ex-Smashers with a country boy as their front man planning to sabotage the Smash Tournament, you mean?"

"No," I reply mildly. "I'd like to know about you all – as people, not components to a crew."

She smiles to one side and exhales quickly through her nose. "I suppose we have only briefly introduced ourselves," she concedes. "In essence, we're all in a similar profession to you – delivering swift justice to the bad guys. The obvious exception is Peach. As you know, she is Smash Director and the Kingdom's Princess. Then there's Mewtwo. He's what you call a Pokemon, a generic term for creatures in a continent adjacent to this one. There are hundreds of Pokemon species, but Mewtwo is the only one of his kind. He was a Smasher in the Second Tournament; however, he was asked to retire amidst Board fears the violence would encourage him to relapse into his destructive ways of attacking people. He now works as Peach's bodyguard as a form of relaxation therapy.

"Fox and Falco – you may guess – come as a pair. They're mercenaries from the Lylat System, which is currently the most advanced galaxy to participate in Smash Brothers. They're a long way from home. The two and Wolf O'Donnell are the Tournament's "Space Animals", and Falco holds a two-Tournament record for the most match kills by meteor smash."

Samus offers another weak smile when she realises a lot of what she has said has gone over my head. I think to try and phonetically spell the new vocabulary, yet my hands are rendered immobile and disconnected from the rest of my body at the mere sound of her voice. She's so shut away, as though she is always speaking from behind a wall, but I am convinced I can trace echoes of liveliness and hope in her.

"Finally," she concludes, "Captain Falcon is a bounty hunter, pilot and racer."

"A car racer," he clarifies from his spot in the cockpit, "before you start assuming I'm an equestrian like yourself. I imagine a horse is far more temperamental means of transport, however, so you have my respect."

I think about telling Falcon just how temperamental Epona is, when I realise it takes seconds longer to retrieve this memory than it should. It occurs to me that I haven't given her or Hyrule much thought at all. The pang of guilt that follows does not hurt nearly as much as the dark thought that one day soon, this universe may consume me altogether. Perhaps, I reassure myself, this is the reason why Samus openly stated I will always have the option to regularly return home – if I don't pull myself out of the quicksand and take a breath, I will surely suffocate.

When Captain Falcon announces the Flyer is beginning its descent, I realise too late that Samus never said a word about herself.

**-x-**

Marth lives in a secluded grove somewhere between Hyrule and Mushroom Kingdom. I start to wonder if even Samus knows where she is, for straight after disembarking, the first thing she does is look around and frown.

"Should be to your left, Sam," Falcon calls from the roof hatch. He makes no move to come along with us. By unspoken agreement, only Samus accompanies me. At first, I think this is because she stands the best chance in holding me back if I try to escape – which she is convinced I will do when I see Marth – but after some careful thought, I believe it is Falcon's doing in giving us the chance to get along.

I stumble into the muddy clearing, my boots sinking into slushy leaves and squashed berries. There are several decaying logs and thin strips of sunlight filter through the dense canopy. Between the thinner cluster of trees, there is a suggestion of a summery meadow ahead. Samus doesn't lead me that way. Instead, we head left and deeper into the woods, until the Flyer is out of sight and the only sign I'm still connected to the world is the tall figure of Samus herself in the distance.

It's quiet – uncomfortably lacking in life and birdsong – and I start to wonder.

Why is Marth in a place that's deliberately secluded?

What is it about him that could possibly deter me from the Tournament?

Why isn't he on board the Flyer, like the others?

And how come, whenever his name is mentioned, something stirs at the pit of my stomach, in grudging sadness and longing?

"Here." Samus only murmurs, but her voice pierces through the grove like a knife tearing cotton. She takes my elbow, and we step over a rotting shell of an old tree stump, and then I spot the grey tombstone nestled amongst the wilting shrubbery and green weeds.

"We can't even put a name on his grave, in case the wrong person stumbles across here, but this is where Marth rests." She bends at the headstone and her hand runs over its cracked surface. Her fingers shake, as though she is still in disbelief.

Somewhere, in the corner of my lonely heart, I think I knew he was gone the moment I saw him. In magazines, photos and blurry recollections of my dreams, his smile and face echoes like that of someone unchanged and distant. His name rings and lingers in me, as though it's an old story or rhyme, and I can't begin to understand why, when I stare at that harsh tombstone, I feel he has been with me forever, and now he's gone.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 4**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Yeah I know, what a surprise! Not. The fic title pretty much made it obvious where I was heading. I suppose you're wondering how a dead guy ranks as the second main character to this fic, outshining even Samus. I promise you I have it all worked out, though :) I'm trying to be prompt with my updates, so they'll likely be monthly. No more disappearing for two years (she says).**

**Anyway, thank you for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	5. the class act

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**Disclaimer 3: The lyrics to **_**Summertime**_** are copyright to DuBose Heyward.**

**A/N: A big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immeasurable help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 5 – the class act-o-o**

_As vulpine as his name and nature dictated, Fox McCloud could outrun and outsmart you in a matter of seconds. He could quip retorts and put downs and scuttle away before it could even occur to you that you had just been insulted._

_He wasn't any slower in the Arena. Commentators and reporters swore by the frame-by-frame tactic, picking Fox apart in slow motion to catch every sly grin and trick up his sleeve. That was the only way they could get him to slow down. He was annoyingly skittish between matches, a tantalising class act who lived out of reach, hidden in the speeding lane and forgetting the ones in his wake. He walked fast, talked fast, thought fast. _

_The day after the Third Tournament's final, Fox crashed into reality. Like an Arwing spiralling out of control and hitting the ground for the first time in years, Fox stumbled over the shattered body. As he wrapped Marth in what remained of the prince's cape, Fox knew he was fast – but sometimes, he wasn't fast enough._

**-x-**

I can sum up the full extent of my naivety with a single confession: I have never buried anyone.

As an efficient wanderer, I never linger long enough in lives to see them pass in death's encompassing grace. I meet people – from Goron and Zora tribes to talking foxes and warriors of space – but ultimately, I slip away every time. I don't know if they let me go or if there is something in me, a dark instinct that ensures I always wriggle free from the chains of connection.

The finality of death doesn't scare me – everyone dies, even princes – but the uncertainty of living on, of developing relations and purpose and keeping them in something as fragile as another's heart—

—that scares me a bit.

I only need to look across the quiet grove to Samus, at her permanent state of distance and the way she seems locked behind invisible glass; and I can freely surmise that when you bury someone, it seems inevitable you bury a part of yourself too.

"We had planned from the very beginning to tell you about Marth." Samus breaks the silence with rehearsed calm. "The only debate was the right moment. We didn't want to tell you so early that you'd refuse to help us, but we weren't keen on leading you blindly for so long, either."

"You could have told me any time, and it wouldn't have mattered." I look up in time to catch the first instance of her sullen expression cracking round the edges. "Death doesn't deter me. If anything, it compels me to help."

She tilts her head, tired from the burden of grief and regret. Her cheek rests a hair's breadth from the cool surface of the headstone. "He didn't just die. He was murdered two months ago, right after the Third Tournament's final in February. The world doesn't know about it, but he was killed, and by the Smash Brothers' leader at that."

I sit forwards in my designated seat – an old, decaying log – and attempt to guess the path myself to save her the ache. "Sabotaging the Fourth Tournament is a form of revenge then."

Samus blows her fringe upwards in a move of resigned acceptance. "Not so much a form of revenge as it is a eulogy," she mutters. "What we're trying to accomplish is a send off he's worthy of. You might recall I mentioned Marth before, as the greatest person we all ever knew. He wasn't great because he was a prince or good looking or one of the top fighters Smash Brothers had ever seen. It was because he was kind, and that's not a trait you see in the Tournament."

I wet my lips, suddenly more aware of the ill-fitting grave which, in its unnamed and secluded state, is a poor marker for someone of such calibre.

"Marth was supposed to win the last Tournament," says Samus, "but he didn't even reach the semi-finals. You see, Marth failed to mention something crucial about himself."

"A secret that got him killed?"

"Yes." Samus draws her knee up to her chin, abruptly casting a frail figure. "He neglected to tell anyone he was the exiled prince of Altea."

"Was it important that he be a prince?"

She shakes her head. "Not to me, but to some, it's all about fortune. Marth was the first royal Smasher. Of course Master Hand felt betrayed when he found out Marth had no fortune behind him and was instead, in the Tournament to seek Master Hand's assistance to win back his country, Altea. The Tournament's not a nice environment, Link, you'll notice that straightaway on your first day. That's why Marth stood out. He was a glaring reminder that we could be more than bitter fighters, which is something you tend to forget once Smash Brothers snaps you up. It's a business, not a unifying event. Master Hand decides on the Champion of each Tournament long before the games have even started, and he typically sets up matches so that the desired winner comes through. The Champion usually has something of value. A country, a reputation, a fortune…anything that gives him a spark and makes him shinier than the other toys."

"And Marth was the reputed heir to such things," I conclude.

"Until he said he wasn't," she replies dully. She rubs the side of her head. "I suppose you're wondering where you come in all this."

"…I've just assumed I'm here to win on Marth's behalf. Perhaps with my victory, I can save Altea as Marth had planned."

She smiles. "You're very sweet," she murmurs, "but Altea has long fallen, waiting for its prince to return. You're halfway there, though. We want to steer the Tournament so that in some way, Marth receives victory. In addition, there's a place you need to reach. It's called the Hall of Fame."

She stands up and runs her hand over my right shoulder. The move is stiff and awkward, as if she fears repercussion. "But I'll leave that for later, if you could kindly grant me some more of your patience."

I nod. "Of course."

**-x-**

I don't say anything as Samus pushes a hand to the headstone, relishing its cold feel. She doesn't say anything either as I place a few pebbles on the grave. We leave without exchanging words or glances.

I dare not insult her by telling her the impossible truth behind my silence: that I desperately miss my best friend – whom I've never actually met.

**-x-**

Epona gets into the makeshift stable at the back of the Falcon Flyer without needing a single carrot to persuade her. The cargo door drops open and she trots in to snort with approval at the new environment; and what's meant to be a big struggle is clockwork instead.

"I thought you said she was temperamental," Falco remarks, dusting some stray bits of hay off his front.

Captain Falcon laughs – a loud, from the stomach sound that never fails to work a smile on my face – and he claps my shoulder. "You know, this must be the first time you're silent not by choice, but because you really are lost for words."

I scratch the back of my head, perplexed at the sight of Epona chomping on a carrot in Peach's hand, unruffled by the spaceship surrounding her. "I had been expecting…" I start, uncertain how to finish.

"_I explained the situation to her_," Mewtwo contributes. He is busy looking around at his surroundings, but he spares a quick glance at us. "_I speak horse._" He gives me little time to decide whether he is joking or not, for he adds, "_We only have your belongings left to pack, Link. Do you have your own place at Kakariko Village?_"

"No. I do odd jobs for village inn, like feeding and exercising the Cuccos and collecting things from the market. In exchange, they let me stay with them."

Mewtwo stares at me. "_Isn't that a peculiar arrangement,_" he says finally. "_Serfdom has never been so vague and reliant on mutual trust._"

Fox walks in step with me, shaking off Mewtwo's remark of inscrutable emotion with a simple pat to my arm. "I'll help you pack your things."

Tara, the innkeeper's wife, nods in greeting when she sees me come in. "Oh, look at you!" she says to Fox, smiling from behind the folds of the baby blanket in her arms. "What a fantastic costume!"

"I get that all the time," Fox utters amusedly. He follows me upstairs. "The Lylat System's too advanced in technology and evolution to have a hope of being understood outside its bubble. Still!" He grins, snapping out his mild reverie. "Nice room. Shame you don't have anything in it. Have you already packed, or is that pile of junk in the corner really all you own?"

"It's not junk." I fold up my spare tunics, try to cram Rupees in my worn wallet and stack fishing logs and bug books to be the base of my bag. Fox paces up and down the narrow length of the room like a Moblin on patrol, making small sounds of thought. He wheels round after a minute.

"The others – bar Peach and Falcon – are a bit too proud to admit it, so I'm going to speak on everyone's behalf. You're a decent guy, Link. Marth would have liked you. We thought you might bail on us after learning about him, but you heard us out and you're now an active part of the eulogy he so deserves. In essence, thanks pal."

I smile by reflex. "I feel like I know him."

"Oh yeah," Fox says idly, "that was always the way it worked in Smash Brothers. You only got to know Marth through Samus, and you only got to know Samus if you knew Falcon, and he was the best keeper you could ask for. Thick as thieves, Samus and Marth. Their camaraderie was the media's favourite story; they tracked it for both the tournaments Marth was in. Spun most stories with romantic flair, hooking up a space warrior with an outdated prince, forbidden love and that. Though one time," he grins, "they even ran a hilarious story about the Federation sending Samus to rattle Marth because he was an alien parasite in disguise." He shakes his head and scoops out Rupees from the bottom of my trunk to hand to me. "He wasn't, by the way."

For a moment, the only sound is the clinking of Rupees as they slide into the worn pouch. Fox appears absent, lost in thought. I too, am so carried away by his words that it doesn't occur to me to admit it isn't through Samus that I know Marth. It's something else, but I can't put my finger on it.

"What's this?" Fox demands suddenly. He snatches up something small and blue, giving it a small shake. "Not one of those repulsive incense burners?"

"No, that's the Ocarina of Time," I exclaim. Visualising it smashing into pieces, I pull it from him before it becomes a reality. "It…It doesn't work, though."

Fox folds his arms behind his back, tilting his head to the side. I fold up the Ocarina in spare cloth and tuck it away in my bag.

"How can an ocarina _not_ work?" says Fox.

"I play it," I answer evasively, uncertain how well one of Hyrule's greatest treasures will be appreciated, if at all. "I play the Ocarina, and nothing happens."

I get to my feet and sling my bag over my shoulder. When I glance around my room, I admit that Fox's earlier point about the emptiness is valid. I have barely made an imprint in the world. I have packed one small bag, and now the room doesn't even come close to suggesting someone lived in it for eight years. I have simply faded into the background with no record of who I am and ever was, as empty and meaningless as notes from the Ocarina.

Absently – although it is an afterthought that stings for the remainder of the walk back – I conclude my eulogy will be nothing like Marth's.

**-x-**

"Plugs," is the last thing Samus says before my imminent departure to the Fourth Tournament. We stand in the hallway of Summertime's headquarters, and the reality of me entering Smash Brothers takes form as a particularly painful headache. Samus takes my hand and slips in a rectangular box full of tiny cushions. She claps my shoulder, ushers me to the front door of our base at Star Square and into the presence of a stranger in formalwear.

"It's me, Link."

"Oh, right!" I start. "I'm sorry, it didn't click—"

Falcon grins. "Let's keep it that way. In the world of Smash Brothers, Captain Falcon is never seen in anything but a flashy race uniform and a helmet hiding his identity. He's also out of action. You, Link, will be arriving at the Fourth Tournament with your trusty manager and sponsor of Summertime, Bart Fleming." He gestures to himself and adjusts his glasses to sit better on his nose. "You call me Bart, I call you Link, and no one suspects a thing."

Samus closes the door behind us and we set off to catch a tram to the Tournament Grounds. "Will she be all right?" I ask Falcon. "Mewtwo and Peach are part of the Board; Fox and Falco are Smashers; and you have a way inside as my sponsor...She's on her own, isn't she?"

"She'll be all right," he says, but even Falcon can't feign reassurance with such a generic phrase. "She's got plenty of things to keep her occupied, and you only have to wait a week before we lug you back to base for the weekend to work on sponsorship and marketing. You're counting down the days already, aren't you?"

I tear my eyes away from the colourful banners that adorn the streetlamps and overhead bunting. I can't seem to get away from the Smash Brothers' logo. Even when staring at the tram floor at the maze of legs, I spot the circular insignia branded on a child's shoes. "It's starting to feel a bit daunting," I admit, refraining from adding that the prospect of no longer being under Samus' watchful eye is the reason for it.

Falcon guesses my train of thought anyway. "You won't be on your own, even if it feels that way," he says in an undertone. "I've got something that will make a difference to your stay here as Smasher, but let's get the opening out the way first."

Falcon talks me through the opening ceremony of the Smash Brothers Tournament. Although it does little to quell my nerves, his explanation guides me into a determined, almost detached mindset.

"I can't join you in the Arena. The sponsors will take an underground pass and sit in that giant box at the far end. That's the Roster Box. You see it? It's the one with the red seats. If you squint, you can see Peach and Mewtwo there." Falcon points to parts of the Arena from the alcove where we stand. "I recommend wearing those plugs right after your name has been called. The Arena has twenty racks up in the gantries for sound and film; you're going to blow your eardrums apart if you don't watch out. Now when you get called, just do what everyone else does and walk into the Arena to centre stage. Face the sponsors and Master Hand and enjoy the atmosphere."

Falcon claps my shoulder, and I wince on impact. "One last thing. The press sit in those seats to the left hand side of the Roster Box. Those reporters with the microphones and big boxes – cameras – are responsible for telling the rest of the world about Smash Brothers, and not all truthfully either. While you're here, I want you to avoid saying anything to them without consulting us, because they make it their job to twist words to sell copies. Tell me you understand, Link."

"I understand, Bart."

He smiles, relieved. "Excellent. I'll see you on the other side."

He slips out of sight, following the other sponsors. On a quick glance round the upwards tunnel to the Arena, I immediately note how the Smashers stand apart, despite being together in a narrow space. It's only really Falco and Fox who acknowledge one another; they converse quietly at the front of the tunnel.

Without warning, a jarring fanfare crashes down on the Arena with simultaneous applause and a triumphant piece begins, which doesn't sound far off of several orchestras trying to play three different songs at once.

"Ah!" I clamp my hands over my ears, wobble on my feet and fumble for the plug box. I steady my breaths and try to regain some composure. I stick in the plugs and immediately, the chatter and applause and music fades away and as though I have just dropped into the murky depths of Lake Hylia, the only sound now is my breathing. The lights dim and as I crane my neck to look past a large, ape-like Smasher, I observe the flashing, colour changing lights of the Arena up ahead.

One by one, Smashers start running towards the entrance. Their footfalls are silent, as though we are all sprinting in space. Fox and Falco dash out together, and when I lose sight of them and know I am truly on my own, I close my eyes and lean my back on the wall.

That is when I remember his voice. It's veriloquent, careful and unabashed.

Or maybe, engulfed by nerves, I am merely seeking escape by fabricating.

Something jabs me hard on the left side of my knee and pulls me out of my thoughts. "Ouch!"

I look down to see a spiked sword and at its hilt, a round ball of blue with a mask. He points to the entrance repeatedly, his glowing gaze darting in a move I interpret as impatience. Quickly, I remove a plug.

"—you, isn't it? Link?" he's shouting over the ruckus. "What are you doing? Go!"

I jump and break into a run.

"The Unsung Hero, Link!" Master Hand announces (probably not for the first time). My insides churn at his omnipresent voice and that, in combination with my disorientation, forces me into an uncomfortable daze. The other Smashers are waving to the stands. Some are even leaping into the air and showing off with somersaults.

I have to squint and shield my eyes at the assault of spotlights from all directions. I cannot even hazard a guess at the number in the crowd, only that everywhere I look, I spot more banners, more eyes and more people screaming themselves hoarse.

"And finally, the returning champion, Meta Knight!"

I return to my bubble of kind silence as I slot my earpiece back in and to my dismay, watch Meta Knight soar into a grand display that puts my own entrance to shame. He circles the Arena like a free kite cruising in the wind, tantalisingly close to the sea of stretched hands. He then swoops down at the head to land next to Peach.

The Princess is clapping enthusiastically, beaming at Meta Knight as she passes a stick. In a swift move of tradition, Meta Knight swings it back and strikes a giant gong. I don't hear the resulting sound, but I watch it reverberate in its suspended position, trembling like my own hands. The crowd leaps to its feet in yet more applause.

Meta Knight leads us out of the Arena. We form an orderly line and traipse through the opposite tunnel and before long, I find my way through the seats back to Falcon. He gestures for me to remove an earpiece.

"Nothing else is required of you now," he says. "The rest of the afternoon is just shows, fireworks and speeches."

I try to get comfortable in my seat, but the burning sensation in my cheeks makes this implausible. "I didn't hear my name."

"I know." Falcon grins. "Master Hand had to call your name three times. Don't worry! The worst entrance to date is still when the Space Animals were introduced altogether. Wolf and Falco got in a fight before they were even out the tunnel. Ended up dragging each other across the Arena while Fox was in the crossfire. Notice Wolf's been introduced separately to Fox and Falco this year."

Falcon does little to quell my embarrassment. I sink low in my seat, succumb to the silence again and watch the celebrations unfold. I feel a little better when I see Peach isn't too far away from me. She stands at a dais positioned at the head of the Arena. Mewtwo stands to her left, clad in an odd set of armour that only covers his main joints and his head. Everyone around me is lost in applause and joy, their heads nodding in time to a beat that shakes through the Arena. Peach is talking to Master Hand, and in the safe cocoon of observation, I notice every pause, every intake of breath – they do not go without a mechanical smile. She keeps looking at Master Hand and wrinkling her face in a pretty laugh.

My insides twist and turn at the sight – for I know that right on that dais, a generous leap away from me, is the killer of my friend. As I study Princess Peach and her graceful introduction to the Tournament, I warily acknowledge the strength of her heart.

I wouldn't be able to smile at Ganondorf, forgive and forget his sins, even as a ruse. I would most likely push myself into madness just trying.

It pains me to think the abundance of hurt and truth she must suppress. I look away from her sacrifice, and in a move that gently prompts Falcon to lift an eyebrow, I remove both my earpieces.

The comfort of fair hearing is not much of a loss at all.

Sound crashes back into me. A general low hum of chatter, the irregular clicks like throaty bird calls.

"—to confirm the retirement of three veteran Smashers," Peach is saying. Her voice rings over the Arena. "The Smash Brothers extend a wistful farewell to Samus Aran, Captain Falcon and Prince Marth Lowell. We wish them well for their future endeavours."

There is a collective sigh of disappointment. Falcon, however, appears bored. His gaze doesn't even waver as his name gets mentioned. Amidst the low chatter and polite applause, I track a brash voice that, despite talking in a murmur, cannot escape my keen Hylian ears.

"And good riddance."

It only occurs to me after hearing this that the crew may not be universally liked. Startled, I crane my neck to look behind me to meet a stern gaze, accentuated by spiked blue hair and a face of stone. He stares at me the way a huntsman spots game out the corner of his eye.

I offer a smile. He stays deadpan.

I shrug, make a note of him and resume watching the celebrations.

"Mug," he concludes of me.

**-x-**

The Tournament Grounds is a vast expanse of land that could easily engulf Hyrule's Castle Town, but it isn't quite big enough to house the Smashers. We are carted off to the Smashers' seasonal home after the opening ceremony in a car, whose bumpy journey promptly makes me vomit in the toilets. The resort is simply named Eden, and it lies adjacent to the Tournament Grounds and overlooks a large port and ocean. For privacy, it is cut off from the six major tram routes and can only be accessed through the Grounds. Most of its sides are adorned with tall, umbrella-like trees with only a handful of large leaves that sprout out the top.

I don't really want a suite. I have already warmed to the cosiness of the Flyer's cabins and the sloped attic room back at Summertime.

"It's the only place you can truly be left on your own," says Falcon. "Peach has already gone through the specifics with the newcomers' sponsors. I took the liberty of making a few decisions for you; I picked a suite that wasn't too high up the Resort in case you have a thing for heights. This is your smartcard." He holds up a palm-sized card. "It'll let you through all doors of Eden except other Smashers' rooms. Just swipe it through the reader. This slightly bigger pass is an RFID card, which is for the Grounds. I've already added an account to it, so all you need to do is spend the money at vending machines and restaurants and eat well. It also doubles as your pass in the Grounds. Don't lose either of them."

I take the cards and thank him.

"That's all standard stuff." Falcon drops his voice a little so that we aren't heard in the excitement of Smashers in Eden's lobby. "The last thing is this – your phone. You get a phone in your suite anyway, but I want you to use this one. It's straight from Mute City, so it's quick, easy and has a battery life of two years. Just don't download any games," he adds with a smile. "That will really wear it down."

He goes on to explain to me the basics of a telephone and how it will connect me back to Summertime. I memorise the order of buttons to press and all too eagerly take the object that will let me hear Samus again.

"It's important that when we answer the phone with 'Summertime', you reply with, 'And the living is easy'. Just so we know we're talking to you and that it's safe." With his usual painful clap to my shoulder, Falcon takes his leave.

After one long battle against the smartcard reader, I stumble into my suite and collapse onto a bed big enough for the chief of the Gorons. I nurse my burning ears, exhale and glance at my outstretched arm, where the phone is gripped tight in my fingers.

I push three buttons.

"And the living is easy," I say straight after hearing Samus' voice. There's a chance she might be laughing quietly.

"So soon, Link," she says. "Everything all right?"

"My ears hurt," I admit.

"That's why I gave you ear plugs."

"My ear plugs made me miss my introduction. Meta Knight had to prompt me."

"Yeah, I saw the broadcast. Don't worry about it." I can definitely hear her laughing. "The opening walk is completely eclipsed by the actual Tournament. You're meeting Peach tomorrow to gear you up for matches. Rest up, Link; you've got a big day ahead of you."

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 5**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	6. the average joe

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**A/N: As usual, thank you to those who have read and reviewed this fic – your support is immeasurable. Also a big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immense help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 6 – the average joe-o-o**

_Somewhere in the heart of Port Town, there was a bank vault that housed the impressive number of Captain Falcon's forged documents. To date, he had seven passports, five galactic visas, three property deeds, four driving licences and eleven diplomas for subjects he had never studied. He had twelve different personas, twelve places of birth, twelve birthdays and twelve sets of parents. Each day was just a matter of selecting which identity to adopt, as easy as picking one's favoured hat for the day._

_Falcon was often asked how he never lost himself, how when he lifted off his mask, there was still something underneath. His answer was simple – that as an average Joe, he could easily hide in plain sight – and for a while, his disguises were utterly harmless._

_In retrospect, Falcon was certain his profession had given Marth the training he needed to wear the most damaging disguise of all. The last time Falcon saw Marth, the prince had grinned, and he said nothing was wrong._

_Falcon made the mistake of believing him._

**-x-**

My first morning at the Tournament Grounds is unbearably beyond my control. There is a clear routine to the building and its facilities, but instead of accepting it, like accepting the strong rapids of a river, I unconsciously fight it, battling out a complex route to the same destination. By the time I have found my way from Eden to the Grounds, I am practically ready to go back to bed again.

"Excuse me, are you going to the breakfast hall? It's just that I've lost my way." I jog to catch up with a Smasher ahead of me. He looks every inch a monster I would not hesitate to slay in Hyrule, but as Falcon advised me before I came to Eden, I can no longer attack everything I even remotely perceive as a threat.

"Oh sure," says the Smasher. He gives a toothy smile and turns round gracelessly. I take a step back to avoid the spikes that protrude from his shell. "I'm actually headed to the gym myself but the dining hall's easy enough to find. Just follow this corridor until you see a stairwell. After that, you only need to go down all the stairs, and it's right there."

"Thank you!"

"Not at all!" He pats my shoulder (which, for every thump, feels like I am being clubbed) and ambles away.

Following this route, I soon end up in a windowless maze of open plan rooms with humming machinery and flashing lights.

"What are you doing all the way down here?" a Toad exclaims. He runs over to me. "This is the maintenance floor. Are you lost?"

"I was told the breakfast hall was here," I start nervously.

"It most definitely isn't," he snaps. "Someone was probably playing a trick on you. It's upstairs. Go back up two flights of stairs, turn left out the door and follow it round. Now leave, quickly before the staff members begin to ask for your autograph." He adds (mistaking me to be earshot of him), "Breakfast, honestly. Did he miss the big green sign at the foot of the staircase?"

I don't fare much better when I do find the breakfast hall. My fingers cannot quite get to grips with the RFID pass and its mechanics, such that a frustrated chef snatches the card and takes the payment himself.

Although I desperately want to join Fox and Falco at their table, I train my feet to veer away from them and sit in a booth where the morning sun is my only company. I chew on my omelette and furrowing my eyebrows in concentration, I try to open the can my drink is currently trapped in. I appear to apply too much force in the wrong place, for without warning, it leaps out of my grip, skids off the table and rolls across the floor.

I jump up and chase it, and though I really don't want to, my eyes lock onto the blue haired man with the stony expression.

When I reach out for the can, I grasp thin air instead. I straighten up to see a familiar face.

"Take the tab and pull it up and towards you." Snake demonstrates and then hands the can back. "Good to see you again. I'm Snake."

"Link." I extend my arm, and in a rare gesture of politeness within Eden, Snake shakes my hand. "I'm glad to see a friendly face," I admit.

"I think we insult the veterans just by being here," Snake remarks, "but we all need to start somewhere."

I nod and I feel more relief than I ought to when Snake opts to join me. He surveys the hall with mild revulsion. "You seem to have struck a nerve with Ike." He nods to the blue haired man, and I breathe in sharply at his name.

"He came third last year."

"That's the one. He's reputed to snatch this year's victory, but not if you and I can stop it, huh?" He favours me with a smile that nearly goes unnoticed behind his unkempt facial hair. "So how far away is home?"

_Seven stops on the green tram to Star Square_, I want to tell him, but instead I say, "A fair distance. No one has ever heard of Hyrule." I fiddle with the pull tab of my can. "How about you?"

"Yeah, far," he says. "Still, it's decent here at Eden and the Grounds so I'm not completely overwhelmed. Best of all, it gets me away from my sponsors."

"Who are they?"

"A small firm in Isle Delfino; Master Hand set me up with them. They sell scuba gear. Not that I'm an underwater enthusiast. You'd be lucky to get me in a bathtub, let alone some depthless ocean. Yourself?"

"Summertime looks after me," I answer proudly. "They sell drinks." Snake gives the large dent in my drink can a not-too-tactful look. "They're screw caps," I add. I shrug, and with a sharp twang that resonates through the hall like the pluck of a harp string, I snap off the tab. As it clatters across the table, a shadow falls on us both.

"Oh good, you've already met!" Peach puts her palms together in a sanctimonious gesture I have never seen on her before. "I wonder if I can borrow you both? I'd like to talk you through Smash Brothers and answer any questions you have."

Peach leads us away from the activity of the breakfast hall. I am convinced that the prickling sensation on the back of my neck is an inadvertent reaction to Ike's eyes boring into the back of my head.

"First off, welcome! I realise there are fewer newcomers this year than there have ever been. Master Hand is getting a little picky, but he is confident you will both easily shake up the roster. Take a seat and help yourself to a hot beverage." She takes us into a spacious room, which I can only assume by its abundance of pink to be her study. "I imagine you are both familiar with the mechanics of Smash Brothers. Second to the Galactic Newsbeam, it is the most highly publicised and viewed programme in the universe. The event is split into three: the Preliminaries, the Qualifying Round and of course, the Tournament itself. From a spectator's perspective, Smashers come on and fight for the title. It works a little differently behind the scenes."

She settles in a cosy armchair. Behind her, seemingly unfazed by the assault of rose pink and flowery fragrance, is Mewtwo. He's still clad in armour, and he pulls off a very convincing guise of an elaborate statue.

"This is Mewtwo, by the way," says Peach, following my gaze. "He serves as the Grounds' core security system. On top of standard security measures, the Grounds is also safe in a telekinetic stronghold. We go the extra mile to ensure your safety and comfort, but if there is anything else we can do, do let me know. Now, I have a gift for you both."

She stands up and opens a metal box in front of us. "As you may already know, every Smasher wears a Patch. It forms the first and most important rule of Smash Brothers: never enter a battle without it. A Smasher's Patch is a battle tag. By wearing it, the system knows your exact location when you participate in a match and by extension, it knows when to collect and portal you back to the stage. Secondly, a Patch displays your damage percentage, either in your peripheral vision or using an LED display on its surface. Most Smashers favour their Patch to be a contact lens or a wristband. In fact, the only Smasher with a Patch different to this is Mr Game and Watch. I haven't the foggiest how his Patch works," she adds with an airy giggle.

She hands over a sparkling silver band to each of us. It has the Smash Brothers logo engraved into it, but there is nothing else that customises it, that makes it something personal. It's a standard game piece, just like me.

"Incidentally, your sponsors have assigned you both with a wristband, but if you would like a change should it prove bulky or inconvenient, you only need to ask. On a similar note, you must inform me straight away if you suspect your Patch is faulty. The fundamental purpose of the Patch is that it acts as a safeguard and grants you immunity to all physical injuries. The only pain that can be experienced in Smash Brothers is that of exhaustion and loss. Any questions so far?"

"Just one," says Snake. "Are you going to use these to track us all the time? Because that's intrusive and borderline disturbing."

"No, of course not," Peach exclaims. "Patches are reserved for all battles – official and training – that take place on the maps. They automatically function when you set foot on a map. The training rooms of the Tournament Grounds have a fully integrated Patch system to begin with, so you can use this facility freely. For the Preliminaries and the Qualifying Round, you take responsibility for your Patch. If you lose or damage your Patch, it can easily be replaced for a small charge. When the Tournament itself begins, the sixteen qualifying participants will be issued with brand new Patches that are guarded at all times the Smasher isn't wearing it. If they are not with Mewtwo, they are with Master Hand himself. Right! Now that I have explained Patches, it's only fair you see them in action! I will take you to the training rooms of the Grounds."

She pauses for a moment, glancing slightly to her left. "Oh, you're in luck! Mewtwo informs me that Mario is already in training! Before we go, please can you both sign this agreement, confirming you have received your Patches and understand your responsibility for it."

Snake scrawls an elegant signature on his agreement. I admire the curls of foreign writing, before scribbling my own name in Hylian.

"Lovely," says Peach. "I appreciate the overload of information, but a quick guide to the maps will prove very useful to you. The Tournament Grounds hosts twenty-four simulated stages at its core, the Arena. These twenty-four stages can also be accessed in the training rooms, and they are all used for the Preliminaries and Qualifying Round. For the Tournament, all eighth, quarter and semi final matches will be held at locations outside of the Grounds. The final itself takes place at the Grounds."

In retrospect, I wish I had made notes. Before Peach leaves us to explore the training halls of the Tournament Grounds, she gives out an information pack of the maps and their mechanics. I still can't read a word.

She senses my dismay, however, and finishes with a light comment that encourages me on. "If anything is unclear, your sponsor will be more than happy to help you."

"For someone of her authority, she seems friendly enough," Snake says of her. We leave her study and wander towards the training rooms. The foreign environment seems far less intimidating when Snake is effectively eyeing the same things I am, trying to make head and tails of his situation. "Albeit a bit mechanical. She reminds me of one of those CG safety videos they force you to watch on commercial planes."

I don't know what he's talking about, but the bite in his voice prompts me into a defensive answer. "I think she's great."

"You know what I think?" Snake smirks and seemingly from nowhere, he flicks the pull tab from earlier into my path and my fingers close round it. "I think you're easily impressed by anything."

**-x-**

As the Hero of Time (which, despite its haziness and irrelevance to the history of real time, still happened to me), every battle I fought was laden with the stench of sweat and the blood of monsters. When I fought in Hyrule, the monsters would screech with every connecting slash of the Master Sword; my arms would ache for days on end from the work and the struggle. On many occasions, it was not unusual for me to be driven to the brink of passing out, blinking perspiration away from my eyes and tasting coppery blood in my mouth from biting too hard.

Smash matches are nothing like the fights I have been in.

Snake and I have a few goes on several maps. Thankfully, Snake figures out how to work the control system, and he inputs a timed match for us to have a go at. The stage is relatively straightforward, with selected space and clear barriers that dictate what is the 'out' zone. The background fuzzes with dotted light, attempting to fool me into thinking I am in the clouds of the sky. Air blows from an unnatural direction, dry and suffocating and compressed. For every hit I receive in battle, my Patch sends a faint vibration through my body to politely inform me of impact when in reality, I should have been blown apart.

"You've never seen firearms then?" asks Snake, when we pause for a break. I sit on one of the glossy squares in Skyworld (as the map likes to call itself) and catch my breath. It is an unusual feeling to have battled for five minutes but to only feel an ache similar to a light warm up. "How backwards is Hyrule, exactly? Your getup's pretty medieval. Still, you'll only need a short while before you get your head round things. You're a fast learner. It's only been an hour and you're already besting me."

"Not really," I answer, rather certain that I haven't seen Snake at his true potential. I take a few seconds to decide whether or not to share my disconcertment. "Do you find the whole battle system to be…I don't know how to explain it—"

"Simulated?" Snake supplies. "Maybe to start off with. It's essentially a form of entertainment, though, and as the money makers, the Board can't afford for us to get injured. I don't suppose you remember the Second Tournament, when Ness sprained his ankle outside of Smash matches? They still made him play."

I nod my head thoughtfully, playing the well-informed Smasher. "…Peach did say that Smash Brothers is very different from this side."

"Controlled," Snake replies. For a moment, he channels a mix of Falco and Samus, his voice laden with bitter acknowledgement of the facts and yet, seeing it as a challenge.

When I have worn myself out with practice and the shocking introduction to firearms, we retreat for the day.

"I wanted to stick to simple hand to hand combat," Snake says, when he acknowledges my comment of his moveset being surprisingly violent. "Master Hand decided against it, though. He's deliberately geared us to be projectile-based Smashers, given that the Smash Brothers' famed projectile expert retired. Samus," he says, to save me from wrongly hazarding a guess.

My breath hitches at her name. It crosses my mind there and then, walking back to Eden, that the possibility my fight style could be similar to hers. The idea consumes me more than it should.

Ike is waiting for us at the lobby of Eden. I make the mistake of thinking he's merely engaging me in another staring contest; when he suddenly gets up and starts a confident walk towards us, I struggle to regain my composure.

He gives a formal nod to Snake, implying they have already met. Then, managing to cram an admirable amount of menace into a polite gesture, he extends a hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ike."

"Link."

"Easy enough to remember," says Ike. "Good luck with the Tournament. It's a steep learning curve."

And with that, he stalks away with his ragged cape billowing behind him. Vaguely, I wonder how much time had passed him, sitting in the lobby, waiting so long to say so little.

"I had him wrong," I comment brightly, my hand still warm from the firm grip of his handshake, "he's actually quite friendly."

"Yeah, hold your horses," says Snake, unconvinced, "it's probably a mind game. You're the new threat, given you're both swordsmen, and Ike is just playing the supportive friend card to discover what weaknesses he can exploit."

"That's quite cynical," I reply, conveniently forgetting that my mission here is heavily dependent on the exploitation of others. "So why have you befriended me?"

"You're an interesting guy, and I have the feeling we're going to be of great help to one another in the months to come. Besides, we're in the same boat, aren't we?" He favours me with a light smile that takes years off him and he unlocks his suite. I watch the door shut behind him.

**-x-**

Five days into the Preliminaries, my suite starts to run out of shelf space.

In hindsight, I really ought to have learnt to know when enough is enough, but I begin to collect things. It starts with me digging out one of my old bottles to store the pull tabs I save up from the vending machine. Then, I discover the free sweets at Eden's reception desk, and I keep and smooth out every wrapper I get. Next, I venture into daring territory, where I pilfer the Grounds' windowsills and table baskets for glowing cubes of light. I keep them on the round table near my suite balcony, stack them in small towers of matching shades, only for them to transform into another shade and eventually go through a cycle of colours. When moonlight filters through the panelled windows, these blocks glow brighter to illuminate my room in the dreamy hue of an aurora.

My bedside table is nearly buried beneath stacks of vibrant leaflets I keep picking up from the lobby. I don't know what they say or advertise, but I can spend hours on end scrutinising every inch of the photographs, tracing the words, creating my own tale to them.

My favourite leaflet is one that folds out from a tiny square into a diamond splash. I think it talks of a restaurant nearby. The images of food leave me guessing their flavour; in the centre is a photograph of (presumably) the head chef, star struck between Samus and Marth.

They smile in exactly the same way, and on more than one occasion, my thoughts linger on how they met. Were they brought together by kind chance, the way Snake and I fell into step? Or did they see one another from a distance and somehow know they were staring at their true and lifelong friend?

One quiet breakfast, when I am lost in things like this, bent over my muesli and carbonated drink, booming laughter rings through my head.

"_Link, you have to stop_," says Mewtwo. "_Buying five cans a day simply to collect the pull tabs doesn't assist in shaking off your fish out of water syndrome_."

"Sorry, I just want—"

"_Mementos. Seriously, if you want them that desperately, I'll pick apart a recycling bin and get you some. Now take out your phone please and pretend you're talking to me that way. Remember what I said about the social implications of talking to oneself_."

"Sorry," I say again. I fumble for the phone and hold it to my ear. I subtly locate Mewtwo from my booth. He is walking in Peach's wake, each step accompanied by clanking metal. He appears to be extraordinarily talented in multitasking, for although he is talking to me, his armour glitters with flashing dots to suggest he is busy monitoring security.

"_You appear to be settling in well. Since I have visuals of every training room, I've been sending your practice data and moveset videos to Samus back at base (through a different server of course). She wants me to inform you you're making excellent progress_."

"She said that?" I grin and sink back in my seat. "Samus is okay at the moment, isn't she?"

"_Falcon is with her now. Take your mind off Samus for a minute while I relay your next directive_."

I sit up attentively.

"_You're slowly becoming accustomed to Smash mechanics. The Preliminaries is disguised as a friendly period of test drives for the Smashers and bug enquiries for the staff. This is the best time to know your enemies. You're already doing a good job gathering information on Snake. He's the only one Samus has never fought and hence, cannot advise you on, not without input from your side_."

"I'm not gathering information on him. He's my friend," I protest.

"_Then I suggest you revisit your reasons for being here_," he answers tartly. "_Use him to your advantage the way he is already using you. Continue sparring with him and get a feel for his fight style and more importantly, the way he thinks. In addition, I want you to start making a move on your Qualifying Round partner. If you recall, we decided Yoshi was a good candidate to propel you through the Qualifying Round. Have you met him?_"

"Mario took me round to meet everyone on my second day," I confirm. "I made a special note of Yoshi."

"_Good. He's one of several Smashers who isn't interested in the Tournament. He's just here for the joys of the homerun contest and most likely the copious amount of free food. With any luck, by the end of the week, Yoshi's sponsors will supply Summertime with a partnership contract. If all else fails, try Ness next. Peach did say I shouldn't have to warn you about this, Link, but I'm going to say it anyway. Don't you dare happily promise to make either Snake or Ike your partner_."

**-x-**

Sometimes, I think there is something in the Grounds' water, filling us all with suspicion. First Snake, then Mewtwo, and now myself. As I worry about whether I can fulfil my mission of attaining Yoshi, a white bundle of tremendous weight comes crashing down the staircase leading towards the homerun stadium. I spot four thick fingers and a thumb and instantly, I leap backwards with my hand bent back, ready to unsheathe my sword.

_It's Master Hand_, I think to myself, and controlled rage bubbles in the pit of my stomach at the sight of Marth's murderer, but a wobbling cackle of laughter – so unlike the danger in Master Hand's voice – has me thinking again.

"A spanking new deck of cards!" the hand shouts, and it rolls down the corridor as though it is trying to shake off termites. As it comes rushing back towards me, I have to make a giant leap to avoid being swept away. The hand hits a huge display cabinet, rattling the collection of crystals inside, before setting itself straight and crawling back. "Just one second, prestidigitator!"

"Presti-what?"

The hand cracks his fingers against his thumb. "Crook! You're a sham! Why, the cards aren't even fifty-two!"

I blink, wondering if a hand can be offended if I turn tail and run now. "Er…Master Hand? I don't understand what you're talking about…"

"Fifty-nine, I count," it continues fiercely. "And they're all aces up your sleeve…"

"Er…" I start again, but without warning, a hand slaps my shoulder and a familiar bark-like laugh reaches my ears.

"Some of us have been here right from the beginning, and even we don't know what Crazy Hand's talking about." Fox extends a furry hand, and although I am not as talented in acting, we fake being newly acquainted enough to fool Meta Knight, who fits snugly in Fox's tiny shadow. "Fox McCloud. Mario introduced us the other day. You're looking at the last year's runner up. Meta Knight here, as you know, is the returning champion. It's tough for new blood, but I hope to see you break through the Qualifying Round to reach the Tournament, at least to the semi-finals. The higher you are, the bigger the drop; the better it feels when I push you off. Later, Link."

He wraps up his words with a light and graceful leap over Crazy Hand. Meta Knight gives me an inscrutable look before following Fox in a flurry of navy. Although I know Fox is merely acting, I struggle to grasp the cold fact that this is the same Fox who in the haven of my home in Kakariko, had essentially made the gateway to this world so welcoming.

"Danger zone!" Crazy Hand exclaims. He flips over and begins to crawl up and along the wall in an unmistakeable move of fear. "Quick, before the fire!"

"What fire?" I ask him, looking behind me and expecting to see something in flames. Overlooking the earlier proclamations he can't be understood, I try next, "Can I help you?"

"Change the cards," suggests Crazy Hand. "Drop the aces without bending the joker. When? No way, you're out of your league. Go back to go forwards."

He scuttles down the hall. "Go back to go forwards," he says again. "Go back to go forwards."

"Wait!" I call. To my dismay, when I quicken my pace in an attempt to talk to him, he gives a shriek reminiscent of Cuccos being chased by children. I come to a stop, alone in the corridor, my pockets weighed down by pull tabs and duplicate leaflets; finally, I let myself agree that maybe, Crazy Hand is right: I _am_ out of my league.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 6**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	7. the one girl in all the world

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**A/N: A big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immeasurable help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 7 – the one girl in all the world-o-o**

_If the media coverage of Smash Brothers was to be believed, they were like chalk and cheese. Her Chozo blood, his royal heritage and the contrast between their homelands placed them at opposite sides of the same spectrum, and while life dictated they were two lines that could never cross, they still had a connection invisible to everyone else._

_He was inhibited, ruined by war. He harboured brittle emotions but he didn't know how to express them without hurting himself. Home was something far away and burnt, charred to the bone, a faded mark of the past on the map of his heart. He was a leader, a prince, a brother and a son, but on most days, he didn't feel like he was anything at all._

_Samus Aran was perhaps the one girl in all the world, who could look through this small lens of life and know how plausible it was to be so much and yet, so inexplicably little._

**-x-**

Being a Smasher bumps me up to a status I would never taste in Hyrule. I become a topic of conversation, a favourite, a commodity and a racehorse to hedge bets against. In this fast paced world of attention, I have yet to discover its advantages, for all I have experienced this week is being the butt of jokes and apparently, as Snake kindly translated for me, numerous newspaper articles making fun of my terrible entrance into the Arena.

In a desperate attempt to cut myself off from the hype and glamour of Smash Brothers, I spend most of my non-training time either wandering round Eden for interesting objects, or hiding in my suite and studying the Universal Language, particularly numbers. With this intensive self study, I can now passably read percentages and times.

When the weekend rolls round, I can't get out of the Tournament Grounds quick enough. Falcon picks me up and explains that catching the tram back to Star Square will never be the same now that people recognise me. Duly noting this, I adopt a vacant frame of mind and successfully ignore the stares without doing anything that will prompt another embarrassing report.

"Home sweet home," Falcon says lightly, as I head into Summertime's base and make a beeline for the front room. The window in the kitchen overlooks the paddock that backs onto the house; out in that wide stretch of grass is Epona, her tail swishing with obvious contentment. "Epona's being taken care of by Daisy – she's one of Peach's friends. She comes by to feed and exercise Epona, but other than that, she doesn't know anything about Summertime."

When I reach the front room, I grin with such fervour it makes my cheeks hurt. Samus gets up from the sofa and throws a notepad aside.

"It's so much better to see you in the flesh," she greets. "Come and see what I've been working on."

I take to that invitation eagerly. Falcon offers to go make hot drinks for us all, and Samus gestures to a flat screen a few feet away from us. "Mewtwo has been sending me recordings of your moveset in action. While you've been practising this week, I've been analysing your style so that I can train you to beat every opponent you'll be pitched against. So far, your biggest concern is that you're bordering the heavyweight category. To comply with your status as a projectile specialist, Master Hand has twisted you into a Smasher who is extremely vulnerable off the map, especially during recoveries."

"I did notice that," I reply. "I try to keep in a safe zone, in the middle of the map. Your expression suggests this is a mistake, though," I add with a slight smile, as her nose wrinkles a tad.

"It's passable for now," Samus answers, "but eventually, you have to dare to leap off the stage. But don't worry, I'm going to teach you how to turn your biggest weakness into a hindrance as minor as a graze on your knee."

"You can do that?"

"Sure, but we have to wait for Fox first. Actually, while you're here, we might as well discuss your entrance theme." Samus twirls her pen round her fingers. "Every Smasher enters the Arena to a designated piece. It's one of many sanctimonious opportunities for Master Hand to make money – selling copies of the pieces – but it also doubles as a way for people to relate to you. Donkey Kong's entrance, for example, features a heavy drumbeat that gets all his fans cheering and up on their feet, even though they know he's one of the lousiest performers. Anyway, my point is that as the possessor of a holy ocarina that obviously holds some sentimental value, might there be a specific melody you'd like your theme to include? It might boost your confidence somewhat."

I rifle through forgotten memories of the Ocarina. It seems impossible to pick only one melody. "I'll think over it," I answer with a nod, as the front door suddenly slams and Fox skids into the room with such speed that it upsets a pile of magazines.

He completely skips the greetings. "Samus, I can't do it," he exclaims, crashing into the armchair opposite, "it's killing me." He peers out from beneath his hand. "It's just not in my nature any more. Sure, I used to be a self-absorbed top tier nutjob, but I can't do it. Even though I'm only _pretending_ to dislike Link, I don't think karmic vengeance can tell the difference. Please, can't I just make friends with Link? I'll be subtle and realistic, I promise."

Samus lifts an eyebrow, engrossed in scribbling something in her notebook. "It'll jeopardise the mission. It simply isn't believable having someone like you befriend Link; it'll send the alarm bells ringing straight away. Do what Falco does and ignore him."

Fox exhales, and he looks up at me with the face of a thief caught red handed. "Link, I'm so sorry. I hate being mean to you, but I have appearances to keep up if I'm going to be pushing you through the Tournament without my real loyalties coming to light."

"It's all right, it goes over my head most of the time. How is Falco? I haven't spoken to him at all."

"He's preoccupied with advanced training," Fox replies with a hint of amusement. "You see, he holds a two-year record of having the most match kills by meteor smash in the Qualifying Round and Tournament. He aims to keep this record for the third year running. It's arrogance," he finishes around a grin, "and you'll find it all over the Tournament Grounds. You know what everyone's been saying about you? Nothing about you being nice; they say you're a mug. You're naïve and gullible. Is it true that on your first day, you went down three floors to the staff levels for breakfast because Bowser told you so?"

"Y-yes," I mutter. Samus lets out a tiny groan, which would probably have gone unheard were it not for my sensitive ears.

"See?" Fox snaps at her. "I have to sit and watch this kind of stuff unfold! He needs a friend!"

"He's got one," says Falcon, wandering back into the room with a tray. "That guy, Snake."

"He makes my skin crawl." Fox crosses his arms. "If I had my way, I'd take all measures to keep him away from Link. He always looks like he's up to something."

"Hence keeping him close," argues Samus. "But I agree; Link needs a friend. When you return to the Grounds, you can tell Falco his mission's changed."

I nearly drop my mug of tea, though this somewhat dramatic act is outclassed by the others. Falcon splutters something incoherent and Fox, his brow scrunched into a comical look of disbelief, appears at a loss whether to smile or cringe. He wriggles forward in his chair. "How exactly is _Falco_ befriending Link any more believable than me befriending him?"

"No, I'd like that," I enthuse, and Samus nods with finality, as if my input really does settle everything.

"Falco's a git," she explains, clearly thinking the logic is simple. "He wants to practise his meteor smashes, so he needs a mug who will be his punching bag. Link is an inexperienced loser who wants to learn from the best through simple observation, while playing his cards close to his chest."

Falcon looks unconvinced. "The owner and pet guise then. Well, good luck convincing Falco to be friendly."

I set my mug down on the table, suddenly feeling a lurch in the pit of my stomach. The mention of cards prompts forward the unpleasant memory of a recent encounter. "Samus," I start. "Er…who's Crazy Hand?"

She purses her lips in thought, perhaps digging through her own past to recall for herself. "He's…he's just some loon, Link. You're better off just ignoring him. Why do you ask? Has he been bothering you?"

"I met him. He called me a crook and a sham." I frown, feeling the weight of awkward silence. "…It sounds like he knows about my true intentions. And worse," I finish, taking offense at this action more than any of the many insults in the past week, "he seemed afraid of me."

"…I don't know what to say, Link," Samus admits after a minute. Fox has also adopted a grave expression. "The thing is, Crazy Hand isn't even sentient. Not really. He's officially Master Hand's brother, but he's a different kind of hand. He's a robot – a machine, if you will. He doesn't have the capacity to be afraid of anything. All that comes out of him is ones and zeroes."

I remain unconvinced, to the point that Falcon exhales and moves to sit next to me. "Crazy Hand is a machine that analyses the surroundings and reacts accordingly. He's complex, but ultimately, he can't think for himself. Imagine a real duck and a toy duck. A real duck exists and thinks for itself. A toy duck might _look_ like a duck, but it can never be an actual duck. It isn't anything until an external force picks it up and makes it behave like a duck, and that's all its purpose is: to imitate. As long as you remember there's a hand to that toy duck, its antics shouldn't bother you."

I try and force my mouth into an accepting smile.

"One time in the last Tournament, Crazy Hand fell in a forest pit and suffered a malfunction that made him chase his own _shadow_ because a tripped wire programmed him to think it was an exit door. It took him nearly a month to get out." Falcon pats my shoulder and coerces me to finish my tea. "See? It's just faulty machinery."

I remain unconvinced, but Fox isn't having any of it. He leaps off his chair. "Hey, isn't the training facility downstairs ready? I don't know about you but all this talk about ducks and wires is beginning to annoy me." He doesn't give me the time to form a response. "Come on, Link, let's take a swing at fine-tuning your recoveries."

**-x-**

To Fox's credit, he does his best to explain how Summertime can host the exact replica of a Smash battle's environment, and it is my inability to understand that is at fault.

"We deliberately created Summertime because one of the bonuses of being a sponsor is the right to create a Smash battle facility. It means you can train away from the Grounds and by extension, it means you can train with Samus and Falcon – eventually."

"How? You need a Patch and a moveset for the matches…"

"Peach," he replies simply. "She's in the process of retrieving their old Patches, and since Falcon and Samus were previously Smashers, their movesets still exist in a coded format off the Grounds' main system. Mewtwo's decoding and recoding them to securely send them across to our system without alerting Master Hand, but it's fiddly work and he's a bit lazy. Forget the specifics, just rejoice at the fact you'll soon be able to spar with the great Samus Aran."

"And me," Falcon says mulishly.

It is probably this prospect that shakes off all the weariness and defeatist thoughts I have accumulated over the week. While it is great to have Samus coaching me from the side lines, teaching me recovery options to avoid Fox's guarding, a great part of me wants to see her as the Smasher she used to be. Through her reminiscent looks and my own discoveries in the world of Smash Brothers that is all but a ghost in the back of her mind, I know it was once such a core part of her that she'd never be truly capable of letting it go.

**-x-**

It's a warm night when I retire to my room. I am exhausted but immensely satisfied from training. There is a knock at my door and Samus sticks her head in. Her hair is loose, tumbling over a shoulder in a soft wave of gold. "Hey," she murmurs. "Apparently, you like these."

She steps inside and unfolds a hand to reveal a glowing cube. "You do know that each time you take one, Peach has to order in another batch. It's costing Smash Brothers a fortune." She quirks an eyebrow, but a smile graces her face and she adds, "Marth used to be fascinated by them too."

Samus places the cube next to me. Despite being only the size of a child's fist, it amplifies the homeliness of my room with such little effort. "It's an LED light. These days, they have LED versions of everything. Plant pots, glasses, even showerheads. You'll love the Tournament shop once it opens. I can already see you carrying boxes of glowsticks back to your suite."

I sit cross legged on my bed, pulling one of my tunics into my lap to sew its fraying hem. "…You must miss him so much," I interpret her wistful comment correctly. In her most tentative move yet, she sits on the edge of my bed, a silhouette of lost and lonely blue.

"There's meant to be five stages of grief – five states of mind you develop in response to death." She smiles weakly, as though it consumes all of her energy at once. "Sometimes, I feel everything. And sometimes – the worst of times – I don't feel anything at all."

She flicks the LED light. It tumbles along the contours of my depressed mattress, and the spectrum of colours rock back and forth on the blank walls and ceiling, like a dreamy and unreachable sea. "There's something I haven't told you about Marth," she mutters, "and I still feel I can't tell you, but I'd rather you hear it from me than anyone else."

It is the way she keeps running her fingers through her hair that dashes my first and only guess that she is about to admit Marth was more than a friend. For someone who is naturally so hard faced, the excessive movement suggests an admittance that is no more pleasant than tasting fire.

"Once Master Hand knew Marth was an exile, he took extra precautions to ensure he didn't win the Tournament. In fact, Marth lost in the quarter final to Meta Knight who, as you know, went on to win first place." She purses her lips. "Marth's fighting was sloppy and not even close to his usual standard of swordplay. He was most likely spiked. You know, poisoned."

"Poisoned?"

Even in the soft red hue which, despite its artificiality, bears a striking resemblance to a homely sunset, she can look murderous. "As I said, extra precautions. Master Hand could have just tampered with his Patch and thrown his timings, but he picked the old fashioned way of drugging and publicly humiliating him instead. Marth's image was wrecked when he lost, and…well, he went mad in his last days," she finishes in a near whisper.

At this, we finally look at one another in acknowledgement of the truth. I imagine the restless, countless spectators of Smash Brothers, in the stands and behind the cameras' eyes across the universe, merging to become one solid being of disappointment and hate, and then I imagine how awful it must be to actually face it.

"He started to see things. You know, hallucinate. He made up strange events and insisted they happened. It was difficult," she admits, "seeing him like that, stripped of dignity and dragged into madness."

"…What kind of strange events?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know, they were just odd occasions, times when he was surprised I didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't make a lot of sense even before he was drugged, to be honest with you. But one thing he did say – and kept saying – was that he was out of time and he had 'crawled out'. We couldn't understand him," she confesses, "and now, I wonder would it have made such a difference if we had."

I set my worn tunic aside. "You're looking for truth in his delusions and claims. Do you think the answers may be at Smash Brothers?"

"I think I want there to be something at Smash Brothers, anything substantial enough for me to keep hold of Marth."

I take her shoulder, and I only mean to be supportive, but she recoils anyway. "…What's in the Hall of Fame?"

She exhales tiredly. "It's the failsafe location of Smash Brothers, and it opens on one day a year – the day after the final. Only the Tournament Champion can enter the Hall. Last year it was opened to Meta Knight and this year—"

"—hopefully, it will be open to me," I surmise.

"Yes. It has a misleading name, though, as it's more a vault than a hall. It's the only location in Smash Brothers that's unchartered, locked even to Master Hand and the Board. Rumour has it—" and here, Samus scoffs as though she has just smelt something unpleasant "—that it sits in a different dimension and time stream, but it's essentially a safe. There aren't any records of what the Hall keeps, no security footage or any indication as to its exact location. It's activated and reached by the Tournament plaque as a one off. It's otherwise completely sealed away from Smash Brothers.

"This means," she summarises flatly, "that when Marth died on the Grounds, there would have been footage of it. And there is. However, it comes up as an error file and prompts a system shut down whenever Mewtwo attempts to access that particular archive. Given that every outgoing object from Smash Brothers is checked and recorded, the evidence is still within the Grounds, but out of the security system. As it's evidence that can shut down Smash Brothers, Master Hand clearly hid it."

"It's in the Hall of Fame," I conclude.

"Yes, in the safest place of the Grounds," answers Samus, "and Meta Knight transported it there, consciously or by force."

"That's why you want me to win the Tournament," I say. "It's the only way to close down Master Hand." My thoughts linger painfully on Marth and his death so cleanly swept under the carpet as if it really is as trivial as dust. "I wish I could just kill him for you, if it'd ease the pain," I admit finally.

And here, Samus laughs so wearily, she might be on the verge of pain. "Oh Link, we couldn't kill Master Hand if we tried."

She gets up to leave, but as she passes, she returns my gesture and rests a hand on my shoulder. "Goodnight."

As I lie in bed that night, watching the spectrum of colours dance across the ceiling, I have a thought. It's blurred around the edges, like peering through a frosty window of a house I think I have seen before. I stumble into a dream, of damp grass and a bitter sunset that leaves me regretting; and when I turn to my left, with my legs dangling over the water, Marth smiles back at me in the orange glow, and he says, "So when will we meet, my friend?"

**-x-**

One afternoon, back at the Tournament Grounds, Falco ambles into the training room I have booked out, looking rather constipated. It is only when he pops his Patch in his eye, lifts a stiff wing and says, "Hey, friend," that I realise he is actually trying to smile.

"Hello," I return. "I was practising some dash attacks on the sandbag dummy here."

"Yeah, I saw. You're still a long way off perfection." Falco inputs some settings on the training room's controls. "Incidentally, I need to practise my meteor smashes and am looking for a susceptible Smasher to use and abuse."

I wipe the sweat off my forehead. "What _are_ meteor smashes anyway?"

Falco scoffs, insulted. "Oh, only the sure fire, most reliable way to secure a victory," he says. He might actually sound happy. "You need to get a bit more comfortable with your moveset before you can implement them, but I wager you'll be relying heavily on them by the middle of the Qualifying Round. It's a killing move, used by only the most advanced of Smashers. You know how all this time, you've been sending your opponents off the map by building up their damage and creating enough knockback to push them off? Well, with a meteor smash, you basically cut the crap and spike your opponent over a gap."

I furrow my eyebrows. "Isn't that risky?"

"Exactly. There's no room for the cautious. You have to take control of the match if you want to come out victorious. When you stand around on the map in your safe zone, waiting for your pal Snake to bring the fight to you, you're handing game points to him on a silver platter. _That's_ why you keep losing. If you're going to be in the top sixteen, you have to be the one rolling the dice. Come on, let's have a match and I'll let you experience a meteor smash first hand." He looks as though he is about to say more; however, his gaze drifts past me, eyes reduced to slits.

Snake and Ike enter the training room. Although I wave at them, I can't help but feel confused that Snake would criticise me for wanting to get to know Ike, when he's doing exactly the same thing only days later.

"I couldn't help but notice there are two of you and two of us," Ike greets, apparently incapable of returning my smile. "Enough for a team match. Where's your other half, Falco?"

"Indulging in his short hops and fast falls," Falco says haughtily. "If I remember correctly, he juggled you all season."

Ike's frown increases just for a second, before it undergoes an incredible transformation; he cracks his first smile. Falco returns it and at last, I reach the resigned conclusion that there are some aspects of Smash Brothers I will never understand.

"Six minutes, friendly fire on, Battlefield to keep it simple," Ike suggests.

Snake offers a crooked smile. "Smasher with the least points buys a drink for the rest."

"Done," Falco replies.

"Sounds good," I chip in, but I have the feeling it goes unheard. I put my Patch on, hold it out to the training room's scanner to register and portal myself to the map. As the counter hits zero, I soon learn the hard way just how far behind I am in ability.

Samus' recent coaching to draw me out of my safe zone all but goes out the window when I discover Ike, for all his bulk, has a sword swing that really hurts.

"Link!" Falco shouts mid-dash. "Use your head! What have you got that Ike hasn't?"

"A sword that would struggle to put a dent in jelly?" I answer desperately.

Falco smacks me upside the head and my Patch vibrates to calculate 3% damage from it. "Projectiles!" he squawks. "Use and abuse, and watch me do what I do best."

I start to feel rather lightheaded trying to keep up with Falco. As he assaults Snake to grant me a clear route across Battlefield, I jump onto a ledge, push Ike off the map with a lucky strike and string my bow. I fire arrow after arrow, pinning Ike to an invisible post in the air. Falco's shadow glosses over me, a split-second eclipse, and in a graceful move, he tucks in his arms and brings a forceful, feet-first blow to Ike's head.

Ike crashes and loses a point before he realises what has just happened. Falco smirks and dashes back to the stage.

"That was inc—" I start, but I never finish.

"Gotcha," Snake says lightly and in an odourless, simulated explosion of gunfire, I sail into the air.

_There are always options with recoveries_, I remember Samus telling me. _You can recover to attack or retreat or play or even to hide_. Swinging myself to face the direction I want to go, I fall towards the ledge and in a final desperate act to stay on board the fight, I throw out my clawshot. It grapples the glowing turf with a sharp click. As I hang from the edge, trying to catch my breath, I admit to myself – without a trace of guilt or regret – that I will probably be buying drinks for everyone tonight.

**-x-**

When the barman of Eden's lounge, Sun Harbour, asks if we are paying separately, Falco slaps my back in his first, truly amicable gesture. "Rookie here is going to pay for it all. The blundering bastard can't finish off his opponents but he's a pro at hogging the edge from his partner."

"I'm sorry," I say, for what feels like the fiftieth time. "I lost track of where you were."

I carry a tray of drinks to our designated table in the lobby. Snake already has his feet propped up on the coffee table expectantly. When I hand him his can of beer, he yanks off the pull tab and tosses it to me.

I pocket it. "Thanks!"

Ike blinks, and then wordlessly, he pings off his tab and slides it across the table to me. The revolving door of Eden hisses with movement as Fox and Meta Knight throw their weight against it, not unlike two children battling a sandstorm to get inside.

Snake's expression darkens somewhat at the sight of them, although when Fox saunters past us, he grins straight at me. I wish I could stand up and tell him that already, having Falco at my side – even as a fake friend – has integrated me into a strong group of friendly rivals, and it is thanks to his persuading of Samus.

"Word has it Meta Knight hasn't even set foot in a training room," says Falco. "Cocky little git has just been loitering around and picking apart our movesets just by staring at us. He's rumoured to have already sealed a partner too for the Qualifying Round. I don't suppose it's anyone round this table?"

We shrug and shake our heads. "He's probably asked the first Smasher he saw just to get it out the way," Snake remarks. "If the last Tournament sets a precedent, Meta Knight is the type who doesn't need a partner to progress."

"I'm almost tempted to say Fox has teamed up with him," Ike contributes, but he gives a polite nod to Falco, "except he's always paired with you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Falco replies smugly. "Link, the Qualifying Round's in two weeks, you had better get a move on or you're going to get whoever's left over."

**-x-**

It is a common saying that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. This tip can be further extended and applied to Yoshi. On all occasions I have seen him off the maps, he has been eating (or looking hungrily at) something. Today, he rolls around the quad, apparently playing tag with Crazy Hand and Diddy Kong while trying to eat a barrel of tomatoes. It is a blissfully welcoming atmosphere, for I have long been in the company of men and birds obsessed with victory.

My boots sink into the plastic grass and I clear my throat. "Yoshi, can I talk to you for a second?"

He careers over in a spotty egg of keenness and nearly knocks me over. "Yoshi!" he announces happily.

"Hi. I'm…I'm looking for a partner for the Qualifying Round," I start. It's rather difficult to concentrate when Diddy Kong has somehow leapt onto my back and is now inspecting my shield by trying to eat it. "I was wondering if you'd like to team up."

Yoshi walks round me a few times in an uncanny resemblance to a dressmaker faced with a particularly lumpy customer. He gurgles a little, and while I can take being their makeshift climbing frame, it becomes a tad unnerving when Crazy Hand inches towards me in a way one would approach something to check it is definitely dead.

"Now, now," he witters, "don't fire yet, it's not time. Hey, nice face, nice friend!" He rolls onto his back and wriggles his fingers, giggling away. "Come on in, fly. Ain't no one here but us spiders."

And like that, within the blink of an eye, I once again inadvertently frighten someone. Yoshi stops in his tracks and in an unfounded move that baffles me, he turns around with a yelp and runs away. Diddy Kong swings off me, nearly knocking me over, and he traipses away, throwing a banana skin in the air. It lands at my feet and I stare after them in dismay.

I walk up to Crazy Hand. "What did you say to them?"

He rolls back and forth, which I interpret as a gesture as aggravating as a child with a secret, rocking on his heels. "Not talking to the fire," he announces.

"Have I upset you in some way?" I try next. I attempt to be unaffected by the thought. I have never been important or memorable enough to waste anyone's time in hating me.

"Nope!" Crazy Hand sings. "Not yet!"

And he crawls away with his secrets intact.

**-x-**

"Summertime, this is Bart Fleming speaking. How can I be of assistance?"

"I failed. He runs away every time I approach him." There's an odd silence at the end of the phone, and it takes me a few seconds before I remember. "And the living is easy," I add.

Falcon exhales. "Hey Link," he says. "You sound a bit flustered. Who'd run away from you? You're not exactly intimidating, if I have to be honest."

"Yoshi is terrified of me and I don't know why," I admit. I lie flat on my bed, holding close to my ear my only source of true comfort. "He throws eggs if I come near him and now he's apparently employed Donkey Kong as a bodyguard of sorts."

"All right, hang on a minute, Link. Let me nab Samus for you."

In that moment of clinging to a cliff face, waiting for a lifesaving hand to seize my own, I feel my head spin with panic and heavy paranoia that I will fail to break through the Qualifying Round and as a terrible consequence, Marth will once again jump further from reach.

"Link?" Samus' voice sounds by my ear. "What happened?"

It aches, somewhere in the back of my throat, to admit to failure, and even more so when I know I can't work out how to correct it. "It's Yoshi. He refuses to come near me, let alone be my partner for the Qualifying Round."

"They're naturally playful creatures," Samus replies. "Are you sure Yoshi isn't just indulging in a permanent game of tag with you?"

"He's definitely afraid of me," I state. "I was civil and polite—"

"You're never anything but."

"Crazy Hand said something. He was jumpy around me, acting as though I had offended him in some way."

"And Yoshi somehow sensed that anxiety," interprets Samus. "I have no idea how, though. As I said before, Crazy's not sentient – he's a robot."

"So why does he have the capacity to fear me?" I ask dully.

"I think you're just being paranoid, but don't worry, we'll amend the mission. There's still Ness. You what?" she says away from the phone. I hear Falcon in the background. "Okay, never mind, Ness has already teamed up," she confirms. "Falcon's in touch with Peach right now for viable options. It's not the end of the world if you can't get Yoshi. In fact, looking at this list – Meta Knight's still free? Seriously? – and your quick progress as a Smasher, you might be better off giving him a miss and opting for Falco. You still there?"

"…I'm still here."

"Honestly, Link, don't fret about it. Yoshi isn't a key component."

"It's not that," I admit. I roll over to my side and tilt my head to stare at the headboard, as if I can hide from everything just by doing this. "They're frightened of me. Crazy Hand calls me 'the fire', as though I'm something destructive that could bring them harm."

"Hey," she says, and there is a roughness to her voice she might usually reserve for persistent insects. "You're going to be waiting a long time for universal popularity – take it from someone who knows."

"…It just bothers me."

"You're probably used to being well received," she comments.

"I'm used to being ignored. I _prefer_ being ignored."

She laughs, a soft, unrestrained snicker that makes me wish so desperately to see her face. "No one deserves to he ignored, especially someone like you."

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 7**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	8. the dark horse

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**A/N: A big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immeasurable help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 8 – the dark horse-o-o**

_If there was one thing Meta Knight could remember most about that quarter final, it wasn't the announcement of his victory. It was the handshake. From the spectators' seats, it was regular, polite, normal. But Meta Knight felt ice and fear and truth. Staring up at the kneeling Prince of Altea, he saw the dilated pupils and the thin layer of sweat beneath his nose._

_"Good fight," Meta Knight had said, but Marth didn't look like he had heard. Instead, his grip on Meta Knight's stubby arm tightened, and although he had just lost an important match, he was disconnected, impartial._

_Marth stared down at their locked hands, of victor and of loser, and he mumbled, so quiet that Meta Knight wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear it, "He knows. I'm going to die." And Marth straightened up and staggered off the ghostly platform of the Haunted Mansion, into Samus Aran's waiting arms._

**-x-**

Although I know there isn't anything so awful as a live streaming television, I am always transfixed by its unusual ability to trap reporters and watchers alike with gossipy stories and fabrications that distort the rather normal truth. The Toad reporter on screen is on the verge of falling off her chair as she discusses the Tournament news on Summertime's television.

"Tomorrow, the Fourth Smash Brothers Tournament's Preliminaries come to a close, and fans and Smashers are all discussing the same thing. It's a frenzy of broken disbelief as for the first time in Smash history, space duo Falco Lombardi and Fox McCloud will be tackling the Qualifying Round in separate teams. Princess Peach presented the line up at Eden Resort yesterday evening. Quentin Hughes, spokesperson for the space animals, confirmed the shock move had been prompted by McCloud, who submitted his partnership agreement to legendary speedster, Sonic. Lombardi, in the meantime, is teamed up with lost rookie Link, who famously showed the world the inability to even know his own name, when he missed his introductory run at the opening ceremony. Ant Gibbs is at the Tournament Grounds."

"Thank you, Anita!" Gibbs squeaks after a delay. "Yes, it's come as a surprise, but what we're seeing here is the betrayal we all knew was coming. Lombardi and McCloud have collectively attained two second place positions and one third place. They have always been a hair's breadth away from snatching the title but it's all changed this year. Ditching your best friend and business partner means you're serious about winning. McCloud got there first, promising Sonic a prized spot in the Tournament while prolonging his contract with Lombardi until the last minute, when wham!" Gibbs throws his arms out so dramatically, he drops his microphone in the process. "McCloud drops the bomb and Lombardi is left to salvage any remaining hope of getting through the Qualifying Round. His partner, Link, was reputed to be the only choice left. Meanwhile, defending champion Meta Knight has finally made his move…"

There isn't anything quite like the experience of being insulted in a galactic broadcast. While my cheeks redden and I wish for nothing more than to dissolve into my armchair like a defeated Chu, the rest of the crew seem to take delight in the humiliation. Peach in particular, with her screeches of laughter, is difficult to ignore. She keeps slapping Falcon's shoulder in an attempt to vent her amusement.

"Oh, I love it," she enthuses. "Link is going to waltz through the Qualifying Round, hidden in plain sight!"

"That's the plan," says Samus. Her legs swing idly over the armrest of the sofa (I have noticed she never sits properly in chairs) and twists up her hair into a messy bun. "You can always count on the media to get the wrong end of the stick. Of course, we're not going to follow the story and make you the last resort, Link. That's bait for the public. Instead, we're going to take your training up a notch and try and put you on par with Fox."

Fox doesn't look as impressed as Samus and Peach. "I can't believe I have to spend the next two months with Sonic as my partner. He's going to drive me up the wall."

"Remember it's for Link's benefit," says Falcon, and he adds to me, "Sonic's the fastest Smasher in the line up. Since you're at the slower end of the spectrum, you're going to struggle against him, so Fox is going to thieve match points from him. Sonic won't make it to the top sixteen, not if we can help it."

"You've put so much thought into this," I remark.

"We have years of Smash experience between us; we know how it works," Samus answers. "For the Qualifying Round, you have enough breaks between matches to come back to Summertime and train with us." She is quick to notice I am not as keen as I usually am. "Is something the matter?"

"I thought you would be offended by the media," I admit. "…And I thought I would be too. But it feels nice." I start to address the steaming mug in my hands more than the six pairs of eyes watching me. "It feels nice to be able to laugh my flaws and the seriousness of the game once I'm outside of it. In a way, I'm glad that Marth brought me here. I'm sorry if that's out of line."

I do not miss the way Samus' eyes blink several times in succession, as though she has been roused from a spell of darkness into acceptance. Falco spares his first honest smile, and he murmurs without a trace of malice, "Not out of line at all."

There is silence, but it's warm and kind. "Right," Samus says abruptly, favouring us all with a youthful smile, "let's dissect this bitch."

She unrolls a large chart. We gather round the coffee table, not unlike a group of bandits planning their next attack; Samus' shoulder pushes hard against my own. Thick red lines slice twenty-eight names into teams, and I start scribbling in their Hylian translations under Falcon's guidance.

"This team," Falco says immediately, and he jabs a feathered finger at the centre of the page. "This team is very worrying."

Mewtwo's shadow falls across the list, stark and harsh in the backing light from the lamp. "_Snake and Dedede_," he translates for me. "_With any luck, Falco will hold the fort well enough to keep the damage to a minimum_."

"Can you run over how the Qualifying Round works again?" I ask.

"_Certainly_." Mewtwo psychically lifts a box of pens and begins to scrawl on our team board to illustrate. I watch as he draws a collection of stickmen. "_Twenty-eight Smashers compete in this year's Tournament and for the Qualifying Round, they divide themselves into fourteen teams of two. Each team will go on to participate in thirteen matches. That's a total of ninety-one matches over a period of two months. Now of your thirteen matches, five are time based_—" he draws a picture of a clock face "_—and nine are stock based_." Here, he draws three shaded circles, before gesturing back to the stickmen Smashers. "_The aim is to score enough points to make it into the Tournament. Only the top sixteen scorers earn a place_."

Sixteen red circles ensnare a stickman each. A green hat manifests on the head of one. "_You_ _need to be one of these people_."

"And I score points by winning these matches."

"_Essentially, although that will only get you a maximum of thirty-nine points – three per win – and don't forget, your partner will benefit each time too_."

I smile at Falco, who returns it sarcastically.

"You also earn points through match kills. You get one point per kill. Similarly, you lose a point each time you lose a life," Falcon contributes. "Your bird buddy there is renowned for one Qualifying match last year where he dealt nine killing blows and only lost two points. If you were his partner in that game, you'd only receive the victory points and your own match kills. We need to train you up to deal enough kills in as little time as possible."

"So it's time critical. Don't worry, time critical scenarios are my forte," I try and joke, recalling my pleasant experience of the Water Temple, but it goes over everyone's heads. The only reaction I get is an endearing smile from Peach.

"You are just so sweet," she says. "However, other Smashers are going to have very similar ideas. You have the advantage with Falco guiding you along, but I just know Master Hand is going to pitch you against difficult pairs in the crucial time rounds, not to mention a lot of the Arena stages are not heavyweight friendly."

"Snake and Dedede are going to be tough, even for me," says Fox. "Meta Knight and Lucario too. Ness and Wolf…that's going to be messy."

"I'll train hard," I promise, when the faintest look of doubt crosses his face. "I'm already training regularly with Snake and Ike and they're some of the toughest Smashers. I won't rest until I'm as good as them."

Falco snorts in contempt, but I drown out the ensuing bickering between him and Fox, when Samus' gaze softens out the corner of my eye and she bites the corner of her lip. "You're like fire," she says, faint and honest, and it carries across the room in a whisper only my ears can hear.

**-x-**

"So." Ike steals the seat next to me as evening falls over the Arena. The celebratory fireworks to mark the start of the Qualifying Round dash skywards in a frenzy of explosions. "You didn't miss your intro this time round, my friend."

"I'm not shutting sound out completely now; I've learned my lesson." I gesture to my adjusted ear plugs.

"Interesting choice of partner," says Ike. His face flashes electric blue and gold as pinwheels spin and dance in the darkness above us. "But I know for a fact you weren't the last one left. Falco came and picked you for all intents and purposes. He's got a game plan; I just can't work out if you're in on it or not."

"We have fireworks back in Hyrule. This is the first time I have seen them set off in time to music, though." I shrug. Perhaps the recent influx in exposure to Falco has rendered me cocky.

"It's Meta Knight's theme," Ike says flatly, "as if we keep forgetting who the defending champion is and need reminding. You should stay focused if you're going to hold onto as many of your points as you can. You do know Falco is notorious for his meteor smashes."

"The fountains around the Grounds are beautiful too," I remark. "I don't know if you've noticed, but they have speakers laced into the side of the basin, and the water jets go off in time to jingles that play every hour. It's pretty impressive."

"Yeah I know that…I've been here longer than you." Ike exhales through his nose. "And you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

"I just think there's more to this Tournament than fighting," I respond. Ike actually cracks a smile at this.

"Yeah, you're the only one in that club." He sits back in his seat and scoffs at the fireworks, which now reach a crescendo in time with the live orchestra. "Seriously, though, the jump from Preliminaries to the Qualifying Round is colossal. Don't take your chances with someone like Falco – he'll stab you in the back as soon as you provide an opening."

"And what about you?" I return over the noise of applause. "Do you suspect the Ice Climbers will stab you in the back?"

"Course they will," Ike replies, so confident that it makes me feel rather haughty too. "Thankfully, they're not very good at it."

The next form of entertainment is an army of drummers. They march to the centre of the Arena with glowing sticks, which become the only source of light when the Arena shuts down to mirror the black sky. The sticks dart around in time to the beat, rippling through hues of lazy blue and sea green. It reminds me of the quiet lakebed of Lake Hylia, with its addling, ever changing motions.

"I'm not actually sure I'm going to make it much further than the Qualifying Round, let alone win the Tournament," I finally admit. "I've seen Falco fight and I can't compare to him, and he's not even the Tournament champion."

"No one's expecting you to win the Tournament, and I mean that in the nicest possible way," Ike says. Despite his proclamation, he behaves as though he has wanted to say that for a long time. "Everyone would love to get that top spot, but you have to be realistic. The cruel reality is that some Smashers are simply here as fodder."

"And you're saying I'm one of them?"

"You will be as long as you keep talking about fireworks and fountains." Ike slings one arm over the back of his seat to face me. "I don't know if you're fooling around to throw us off, but I advise you start taking the matches seriously. Otherwise, if you don't watch out, you're going to go out the same way as Marth Lowell."

My head snaps up and suddenly, Ike has my full attention. "What? You know about him?"

"I know he was a gullible optimist like you, obviously before the media slammed him for that disastrous quarter-final," Ike says.

"What quarter-final?"

Ike stares at me as if I have just asked him to marry me. "_What_? How can you not—? _The _quarter-final, Link – Marth's final match against Meta Knight. The one that made Meta Knight the favourite not because he was good, but simply because he wasn't Marth; the one where Marth was shredded to pieces by the media for his lousy performance."

I do my best to seem impartial to this. "Oh, that one," I remember quickly.

"Do you know what happened after that quarter-final?"

I want to turn the question back onto Ike, because he really has no idea.

"Marth went from being the fan favourite to an intergalactic fruitcake," Ike ploughs on. "He spent too much of his time being distracted by the world of the future and making friends with everyone. He mistook Smash Brothers as something other than a business, and the he was punished for it. He was victimised so badly, he never set foot in the Tournament Grounds again. He was a prince, you know; imagine what they'll do to someone like you if you choose to follow him."

I chew my fingernail through my glove. "I know I need to train," I admit. "I mean, my sponsors won't have me settle for anything less than first place – and I assured them I'd get it."

"That was a stupid thing to say," Ike replies without hesitation. "You're already at a disadvantage as a newcomer. You know what you should do? Pay the Museum a visit. They have every Tournament match from the last three years on film, and Smashers get free entry. When I was a newcomer, I watched them on loop to get a feel of the veterans' movesets and styles, not to mention the broader understanding of advanced tactics."

"I didn't know there was even such a place," I admit. "Can you take me there?"

"I'll take you straight after this sanctimonious gala of Meta Knight worship." Ike makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat as a group of fans on the other side of the Arena hoist up a giant banner depicting the Champion's mask. I can't help but think it should be Marth emblazoned on it instead.

**-x-**

Much to Ike's chagrin, the Smash Brothers Museum is next door to the newly opened Tournament Shop. A colossal, villa-like house is cleanly halved to host the two locations, and though the red carpet and semicircular entrance steps make the Museum so enticing, the commercial flavour of the Tournament Shop has me in a giddy spell of excitement. They boast glow sticks, posters and Meta Knight shaped chocolate slabs. There is a glass cabinet further in the shop and behind the counter, out of the way of reckless children, and this holds pristine models of selected Smashers (which are probably very dear). I want to go inside and have a look around, but Ike clears his throat impatiently.

"The Museum's this door. Come on."

There are a handful of children running out of the Shop and onto the plaza, sporting paper Meta Knight masks. Their eyes move oddly behind the strategic holes and instead of a flowing, multi-dimensional cape, one Meta Knight dashes along the pavement with long, curly hair. I must be pulling a strange face, for Ike almost immediately says, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Masks just unnerve me."

When I wander into the Museum, a Toad waves from a tiny counter and says, "Entry is free for Smashers! Would you like a leaflet?"

"Yes pl—"

"Give him an audio guide; he can't read," Ike butts in.

The Toad hands me a black device whose workings I can't even begin to fathom. I spend a few seconds trying to make heads or tails of it, before a cluster of silver out the corner of my eye catches my attention.

I nearly drop my audio guide in surprise.

"The video booths are down here. Might be an idea to learn how to read, otherwise you can't pick the match you want," says Ike, but I am miles away. "Link?"

I venture down the steps, my footfalls silent and achingly slow, and I walk straight over to two towering statues of flawless silver. Meta Knight is frozen in time, wrapped in a whirlwind of sparkling ice; but next to him, clad in a bulky suit of armour with her helmet tucked under her arm is Samus. Her face of metal stares up and beyond, her gaze glassy and empty.

Carefully, afraid she is sculpted in ice and will melt at the contact, I touch her left arm. Naturally, she is unresponsive, but a smile works its way out from inside me. My legs shake from the weight of realisation.

Wordlessly, Ike swipes the audio guide against a blue-lit sensor and it abruptly fizzes to life. Ike hands me the earpiece.

"_The greatest marker of each Smash Tournament is its reigning Champion!_" a chirpy voice squeaks in my ear. "_The Third Tournament saw legendary star warrior Meta Knight win in a dramatic final against space animal Fox McCloud last year, earning the coveted spot that had previously only been taken by Samus Aran. Samus Aran is the two-time Champion of the First and Second Tournament. The huntress has since retired from the games, but her triumphs remain unsurpassed. In the meantime, Meta Knight remains the defending Champion for the Fourth Tournament, determined to hold his title for another year._"

The audio guide's light switches off. When I turn round, there are now some security guards handling a growing crowd of fans to grant us privacy. Ike stares at me, unblinking. He has such an odd look on his face, I have to prompt him out of it with, "…What is it?"

Ike's eyebrows furrow. "You're acting as though you don't know who Samus Aran is. Do you know anything about Smash Brothers?"

I glance back at the silvery statue. The blue sensor hums a quiet, steady tune that is disparate to my heartbeat. "No, no, I know who she is," I breathe. "I just…I just didn't know she's a two-time Champion."

"You never knew the galaxy's most famed huntress reigned over Smash Brothers for two years? You didn't hear the uproar after she confirmed her retirement? There were _riots_, right here in Mushroom Kingdom. Your sponsor didn't say anything about it?"

"No, she didn't say anything at all." I have to take a shuddering breath to steady myself at the mild betrayal. "She obviously didn't think it was important."

"And your sponsor also neglected to tell you the Tournament's toughest Smasher is now off the board, effectively giving all Smashers a fighting chance?" says Ike. "More to the point, isn't your sponsor a guy?"

"He's married," I reply. "Happily married. S-Summertime's a couple. They're ever so lovely."

I start to sweat beneath my fringe as Ike remains unconvinced. To my great relief, however, he gives a dismissive shrug. "As long as you don't turn into a crazed Samus fan around me, we're all right," he says flatly.

"What do you mean? Don't you like her?"

Ike scowls. "Newcomers tend to be blinded by her status as a two-time Champion. They forget to consider just how many people she threw off the ladder on her way up."

Now it's me pulling the cynical face. "You always argue it's each man for himself…"

Ike shakes his head. "That I agree with, but Samus…well, let's just say something was always off about her. She never shook hands with opponents after matches; she never signed autographs or spent time with her fans. She avoided interviews, publicity shoots, wore that exact po faced look-" he jerks his head at the statue "-for the entirety of her career as a Smasher. This is only my second tournament, but I have followed Smash Brothers since the beginning. I might be a mercenary, but even I acknowledge the people around me with a degree of sentience. She—" and here, Ike raps his knuckles against the statue of Samus, and every hit makes my breath hitch in the back of my throat "—was like a robot. She mellowed quite a bit once she hit the Third Tournament, though. I guess she was as bored as the rest of us with her success."

He catches the wounded expression that won't quite leave my face. "You should be glad you didn't know her. She'd crush a gullible rookie like you the way she'd crush a bug under her boot."

I manage to shut my mouth before any more careless words escape. I just nod in agreement and bury the desire to correct Ike and tell him actually, I have lived a long life without Samus, and I never want to go back to it.

"The Tournament matches are kept here." Ike begins to explain how I can push buttons to pick the match of my choice and sit in a booth to watch it unfold, but he trails off when I politely shake my head. "You need to get back?" he interprets correctly.

Ike hands me a leaflet and I make a mental note of how to get back to the Museum. I don't realise it until I am back at Eden, but the bitter taste of blood lingers in my mouth.

**-x-**

"Okay, it's five stock and the map's Smashville. The barriers are pretty kind in this one. You'll be able to knock opponents off without worrying too much about your own recovery. Donkey Kong is an easy target, and Yoshi can't bother you as long as you keep him at bay with your projectiles."

"…I understand."

"Good luck, Link."

"Thanks."

Samus hangs up and I slot my phone back into my bag. It has been five days since the Museum visit, and although I speak with her many times in the lead up to my first Qualifying Round game, I never ask about her secret of being a Champion. A part of me is afraid she will admit she cannot trust a simple boy from Hyrule, and right now, to know how ill-equipped I am for this world is more than I can take. Still, I arm myself with her knowledge and words. Her voice is left ringing in my ears as I wait on the sidelines for the Arena board to flash the image of my impending match.

Falco is stretching his leg muscles and shooting irritable looks at anyone who catches his eye. "Donkey Kong is a pushover, but that's no reason to get cocky, do you hear me?" his sponsor is saying. Quentin Hughes frowns at me as though I am an unwelcome house spider, perhaps annoyed because I still find a talking badger to be utterly fascinating. "And you, rookie, don't hinder his chances. Just stay schtum in your own little corner; this year is Falco's year. Where's your sponsor?"

"With a doctor," I lie. "It was a matter of urgency."

Quentin turns back to Falco while I try and work out why he'd ask me a question without caring particularly for its answer. "Get the points early. Earn your points early in the Round and save your energy for the Tournament. You haven't got Fox to back up your misses; you've got this schmuck instead. It's never been more crucial to rely solely on yourself."

"Yeah yeah, I get it. Go and bug Fox," says Falco. He slaps me really hard on the shoulder. "Ready, partner?"

"Yes," I answer. I keep my ear plugs loose to let in some sound (following Samus' advice that Falco may need to talk to me during the battle) and on the triumphant fanfare, we step into the light.

"Patches equipped?" a Toad on standby squeaks. "The rules are displayed on the main screen: five stock, friendly fire on, a reserved time limit of forty-five minutes. You will earn one point for each match kill, minus one point for each stock lost, minus two if you kill your partner, three points for a victory, none for a draw or a loss. Any questions?"

I shake my head; Falco just ignores the Toad. As we portal to our positions on the map, I revel in the intense atmosphere of the Arena. The Qualifying Round boasts an ambience quite unlike the secluded Preliminaries. The circular band of seats is bursting with spectators unable to sit still. In the dizzying maze of faces and flags, it's really only Master Hand who stands out. I suspect Peach is somewhere in his vicinity, but my sight is powerless against the glaring strobe lights and my only choice is to focus back on the match.

On the word _Go_, I leap off my platform and make a beeline for Donkey Kong. I have three things to think nonstop about. I wrote them down in the lead up to this match and memorised them to the point I woke up every morning reciting them.

One, that I don't get in Falco's way. Friendly fire is on and that means double the point loss if he ends up killing me by mistake.

Two, that I pick on Donkey Kong. As a large target, even I can juggle him. Given that I am a heavyweight, I can withstand his brutal attacks more than Falco can.

Three, that I concentrate on the sounds of my own footsteps, using the rhythm to focus and shut out the audience and in particular Glitzy, a glamorous talking kitten who serves as the commentator, and Gillespie, a podgy weasel who serves as her assistant.

Donkey Kong is soon established as a floundering fighter who relies on sheer luck for his hits to connect. To my great horror, it turns out Donkey Kong has an incredible amount of luck. Not for the first time, I fall prey to his charged attack that prevents me from landing safely. Only on my third time, I learn to not attack Donkey Kong from above.

"Tournament rookie Link is a bit slow on the uptake, but Falco seems unfazed by it," Glitzy is saying. "Why should he be? He's already pulling ahead with two stock points under his belt. Donkey Kong battles on bravely with high damage. One wonders why Falco hasn't targeted him yet; surely the meteor smash champ can't resist thieving such an easy point?"

"That's your cue," Falco shouts across to me. He leaps in to pull Yoshi into a painful grab, cutting out a clear path for me.

I dash attack Donkey Kong and once he soars up into the air, I aim a back kick for good measure.

"Falco appears to be offering out easy points to his partner," Glitzy cries. "Is this a vengeful act to take the rookie into the Tournament, effectively nabbing one viable spot from Fox McCloud? Or is it deeper, more tragic? Is Falco unconsciously waiting for Fox to follow up on his vicious moves, and Link simply isn't getting it?"

"Actually, the rookie's catching on quick. There's no doubt he's trained hard with Falco," says Gillespie. "He knows exactly when Falco's going to unleash a deadly combo – there he goes again! – and watch Link here; see how he sidesteps and rolls safely away. There's actually hope for this team!"

Although Glitzy and Gillespie's voices are incredibly annoying with omnipotence and subjectivity, listening in proves quite handy for me when, a few minutes into battle, they start to shout about Falco.

"Trust Yoshi to suddenly turn deadly with one remaining stock. He's guarding the edge, pushing Falco further so his recovery won't bring him back. Donkey Kong has Link pinned—"

"No he doesn't!" Gillepsie screams as I break free and hurl my boomerang at Yoshi. (I have to wonder if the commentators have to be checked regularly for healthy blood pressure.)

"Brrr!" Yoshi snarls. In the blink of an eye, I see Falco power himself across the map and know it's not enough. I jump, throw a bomb at Falco and grant him another chance at recovering.

"That was a risky move," says Gillespie. "That could have been a team kill but still Link went for it!"

"More to the point, he helped Falco to hold onto his stock point. Now Falco's not exactly the kind of Smasher who struggles to earn points. That Link has gone out of his way in a ridiculous move to rescue his partner shows an unusual trait of true teamwork," Glitzy shouts. "Let's hope Falco will one day return the favour!"

I am far off the stage when Falco seals our team's victory. I tumble into nothingness, waiting for the portal to catch me, and that's when I see it. As the darkness wraps itself around me and the strobe lights thin, I catch the fluttering pea green banner. It's a modest size, not like the Meta Knight banners that adorn the Grounds, but some teenagers are waving it, swaying the golden Triforce emblazoned on that bright green background. I grin, fall into the warmth of the portal and discover I have realised the impossible.

**-x-**

"I have fans!" I skip the small talk in a way that'd do Fox proud and leap into Summertime's living room. "I actually have _fans_!"

"Of course you do," Peach gushes. "With a face as cute as this, who can resist?" She pinches my cheeks, rather like an embarrassing great aunt (not that I'd know) and she thrusts a cup of tea into my hands. "How are you settling in? Isn't the atmosphere so much more different once the doors open to the public? Everyone's going to start fawning over you if they haven't already!"

"I signed a few autographs," I respond. "They couldn't read it, but I think they were happy all the same."

"You'll have to write one out for each of us too," Falcon replies lightly. He is labelling up more Summertime drinks, one of which Samus happens to be unscrewing. "So, how's our unsung hero doing, Sam?"

"Extremely good," she says, and though it seems automated and has the suggestion she has plenty more to add, I cannot help but feel a nervous smile wobble on my face at the thought of being told this by a champion. "You're doing well, Link. Interesting touch with saving Falco's stock. I wouldn't have recommended it, given the risk of killing him instead, but it's doing things like that that make you into the Smasher you want to be, not what we have planned for you."

"Yeah, and it'd take more than a bomb move inspired by explosives manufactured in backwards land to finish me anyway," Falco points out.

"Like Donkey Kong guessing his moves?" Fox remarks. "I recall you had your feathery arse handed to you by a half-hearted smash attack. Second stock, was it?"

Falco scowls, but he doesn't retort on seeing Samus snap her fingers for attention. "Right, since we're all here, we might as well plan out the next six days before Link's second match."

"_Link and Falco will be facing Mr Game and Watch and Diddy Kong_," says Mewtwo. "_They're fast and they're incredibly annoying. Link's going to need extensive training against speedsters_."

"I'd volunteer, but I've got my own match to worry about – Meta Knight and Lucario. Plus," Fox says glumly, "Sonic is a nightmare. He says yes to all the tactics, and then he just buggers off and does his own thing!"

"Just kill him," Falco snarls. "You can cancel the minus ten of team kills by the plus ten stock points of your opponents, plus three for victory points. As long as you don't lose more than two stock, you'll still be in the positive."

"It's tempting," says Fox.

"Don't give him ideas," Peach says. "No, the best thing to do is to sit Sonic down and tell him how you _feel_ about the situation."

"Oh yeah? Then why don't you be his partner and you can see how easy it is," Fox grumbles.

"Excuse me, I had to interview that ostentatious rodent," Peach replies tartly, "I've done my bit. I merely suggested a route you could take without tempting the chance of suspension."

"I can help train Link." Falcon tries to get us back on topic. "I'm a speedster, I got some moves. But of course, that's assuming some lazy cat's got off his arse and transferred my moveset."

Mewtwo blinks slowly. "_I'd say it's at about 85%_," he replies. "_I would, however, advise against you coaching Link. I downloaded many of your Tournament fights to cross reference the data and on some occasions I had to ask myself if I had downloaded a comedy sketch by mistake_."

"Hey!"

More bickering unfolds, over which Samus asks me, "So is there anything you'd like to do for the next six days? I mean, don't be afraid to tell us if you'd rather stay at the Tournament Grounds and train with Ike."

"No…actually, I was rather hoping I could go home."

An impromptu silence washes over the room at my words. I backtrack, holding out my hands. "I…I mean, if it isn't much trouble. I know I should be training, but even for a day…"

But Samus cuts in and says, "I'll take you first thing tomorrow morning."

I must look surprised, for Peach goes on to explain, "Your training will be useless if you're not in the right frame of mind. Mewtwo and I will have to skip out on the excursion though, sweetheart, since we're required at the Qualifying games."

"I'm going to hang back and train with Fox," Falco says. "We need to slow Meta Knight down as early as possible."

I turn to Samus and Falcon. "So it'll be just us?"

But Falcon smiles with a glint in his eye I have never seen before, like he is holding a winning hand to a fortune. "Well, I've been thinking that since my moveset's still in progress, it renders me a bit useless around these parts for now. I might go back to town and pay my sister a visit."

"Your sister?" I repeat incredulously.

"Yep," Falcon says with a formal nod. "So it'll be just you and Samus."

When I glance across the room at her, a sensation hits my stomach hard. It's not quite nerves or excitement, nor is it dread. It's something in the middle, a tremor of understanding, a realisation that as I soar further from her guidance like a kite given more string, as I develop more experience of this world under my belt, so I develop the ability to conduct investigations of my own.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 8**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	9. the dead frame

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**A/N: A big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immeasurable help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 9 – the dead frame-o-o**

_The guilt kicked in perhaps an hour after he had issued the directive. In an uncharacteristically graceless move, Master Hand crossed the cluttered floor of his command centre, promptly tripped over a cluster of cables and fell on his face. He sat there, gripping his injured ankle and swearing through his teeth. In the wake of silence, of the absence of empathy, concern or contact, he slumped against the back of the chaise longue and ruefully admitted, he really shouldn't have sent that directive._

_Smash Brothers' Master Hand was Crazy Hand MK-II, an improved and fully functional robot whose pilot sat in a multidimensional jail cell with a computer screen for his vision and four joysticks as his wheels. He controlled the entire franchise of Smash Brothers from his sofa, had never set foot in the Grounds, had never met a single employee or Smasher in person, had never developed any relationship that was bond enough to make him care._

_Prior to the start of the Second Tournament, Master Hand interviewed Marth Lowell – and he never forgot how it went. He remembered how he had painted the prince as haughty as any other royal, until the door opened and Marth marched in, up the hall, right in front of the whirring machinery of fingers; and as though he really didn't know – or mind – what was in front of him, the prince looked past the dead frame of the robot into the eyes of his real face, and then Marth Lowell – the only one ever to do so in Master Hand's three year reign – shook his giant hand._

**-x-**

In the wake of the continuing Qualifying matches, I come downstairs the next morning to a frenzied rush of people running so late, I find myself breathless just watching them.

"Why has Fox left his headset behind?" Samus. She tosses the item to an unsuspecting Peach, and Mewtwo ends up psychically catching it. "You'll have to find a way to return that at the Grounds without rousing suspicion. I'm going to the garage to try again. Third time lucky, I hope."

"Have Fox and Falco left already?" I ask a harried Falcon.

"We _all_ should have left by now," he says, "but I'm trying to find my wallet, Peach has lost her phone and the gunship's struggling to read Hylian coordinates so Samus is stressing over it."

"Can I do anything to help?"

Falcon's nose wrinkles a tad and he shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, Link, this kind of disorganisation is normal." He thrusts a plate of buttered toast into my hands. "Here. Go sit in the kitchen and enjoy your breakfast."

Although I'm somewhat resentful at being cast aside, I decide to listen to him anyway. I know next to nothing about a gunship and with Mewtwo psychically sending sofa cushions and work papers through the air, I am only too glad to be out of harm's way.

I sit on the barstool and feeling quite proud of being with the times, I manage to aim the remote at the television and switch it on. A newscaster addresses me sternly from her seat.

"—have reached a record high. Authorities in this quadrant of space have stressed the importance to curb the seemingly galactic unrest, but they remain adamant that the events are not a sign of things to come. The Galactic Federation announced yesterday—"

I chew on my toast, watching the shaky footage of a crumbling building behind the newscaster.

"—tells me just to ring it but how can I? It's switched off!" Peach flounces into the kitchen with Mewtwo not far behind. "Oh hey, Link," she says vaguely. "You haven't seen my phone have you? It's small and pink."

"I'll keep an eye out for it," I reply.

An invisible force grips the television remote and Mewtwo wordlessly changes the channel. There is an odd moment that follows, where Peach pauses her search and straightens up to look at Mewtwo and then the television.

"The Galactic Newsbeam's that programme with the turquoise logo in the top left corner," she says after a moment. "It rather looks like a flying saucer. Perhaps I can ask you a favour, Link?" She leans on the kitchen table and adopts a pleasant expression to mask her unease. "Avoid the Galactic Newsbeam if you can. It's a channel that thrives on doom and gloom and it doesn't portray our world in a favourable light. I want to shield you from that."

"A-all right then." I nod quickly, and Peach beams.

"Great! Right, I need to find my phone. No, no, you stay there," she giggles, as I try to get up and help. "Once you've finished your breakfast, then you can help out. Samus might appreciate any help with her ship. Sometimes she just needs a person to complain at in order to work out how to fix the problem."

She starts to search the fruit bowl, rolling apples and oranges across the kitchen surface. "Your entrance theme to the Qualifying games is nice, isn't it?" she remarks conversationally. "I sent the base notes to the sound technicians, who reworked it into a memorable piece. What was that song?"

"The Song of Time," I answer. I shift awkwardly in my seat. "…It doesn't mean anything now. But it used to."

Peach's gaze softens. "You were subjected to a cruel fate," she comments, but there is no disdain of Hyrule to her voice. "Still, you're all right now, aren't you? You're an intergalactic celebrity! You should see how the media ranks you, you're—oh! You found it!" She takes her phone from Mewtwo's suspended hold. "Where was it?"

"_In the fridge_," Mewtwo replies sternly, not unlike an old man scolding his favourite grandchild. "_In addition, there was a leaking yoghurt tube in your handbag. Might I suggest that in future, you confuse your phone with something less messy._"

He remains effortlessly straitlaced, even as Peach and I have to avert our gazes in a bid to control our snickers.

**-x-**

Peach's friend Daisy, although being employed as Epona's carer, doesn't know the truth behind Summertime. This is probably why she leaps to embarrassing conclusions as I take Epona out to the paddock to meet her (over choosing to be on the receiving end of Samus' stress). The princess is already geared up in riding boots and a body warmer.

"You do know why Peach is doing all this for you, don't you?" Daisy runs a hand through Epona's mane and smiles from beneath the shadow of her riding cap. "Renting a paddock for your pony, giving you a plush villa for your sponsors…" Her eyes shine with mischief. "She fancies you! Trust me, she's gonna nab you for herself and make you Prince of Mushroom Kingdom once you eventually retire from the Tournament." Daisy jabs herself with a thumb. "You heard it first from me!"

"I doubt it," I reply (and also hope). "She's just helping me out as her job as Director. I'm…well, I'm a fish out of water. I don't really fit in this world."

Daisy shakes her head and gives me an odd, despairing look, as though I'm a child who has just proclaimed he can fly. "Well, I imagine it really helps that you're a good looking fish out of water," she says, coaxing a resigned smile out of me. "Right, I'll take her then, shall I?" She tugs Epona's reins from my clenched hands with surprising strength.

Something pulls at me from inside, that locks my knees and makes breathing suddenly a conscious effort. Like Peach, Daisy seems incredibly skilled in reading people's expressions. "First time going back home without her? Don't worry, she'll be all right. I'll take good care of her, and your sponsor will take good care of you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

Daisy takes Epona away for her daily exercise, and I wait a few moments for the redness in my cheeks to subside. To me, Peach's behaviour channels more of a fussing aunt than a besotted girl, but Daisy's proclamation does leave open a certain set of doors in the back of my mind.

When Daisy is out of sight, I delve for my magazines and stop turning the pages whenever I come across a frozen shot of Samus and Marth. Now that I think about it, they seem incredibly close, even for best friends.

"Ready?" Samus emerges from Summertime's side door, calling down the paddock. She has her power suit on, and when I run to join her, its shadow completely engulfs me.

"I'm ready." I sling my bag over my shoulders and follow her round the back of the house to the garage.

"I finally got it fixed. I had to re-jig most of its core settings to accept the new coordinates and then do a complete system reboot, but it got there in the end. Bloody thing has no logic to it whatsoever." She approaches the ship, which is significantly smaller and stranger looking than the Flyer, and it drops a circular entrance pad. I follow her inside. "I have to warn you, my gunship goes faster than the Flyer."

In all honesty, Samus hasn't done much to personalise the cockpit. It boasts a board of complicated, illuminated controls, but where the Flyer had posters, plants, files and boxes of biscuits, the shelves of Samus' ship are painfully bare. My designated seat (next to her, disconnected from the controls) feels crisp and new, as though the gunship is as alien to company as it is to itself. The air has the faint tinge of fuel in its aroma and taste. However, in the corner of the pit, there is a sword propped up against the wall, encrusted with two jewels and a curved hilt. I realise now, more than ever, how she truly cannot let him go.

Samus' warning is confirmed when we take off for Hyrule. Unlike the Flyer, her gunship takes off in a vertical line, powered up by three pads beneath it. As the view from the front window becomes obscured by clouds, I decide not to tell Samus her ship reminds me of a sea creature diving the wrong way, but ask instead, "What was your relationship with Marth?"

She keeps a hand on a lever, shifting lower in her seat. She bends her legs so that her feet rest on the control pad. Although it is difficult to see past her bulky suit's shoulder, I know she is smiling. "He was my best friend. Did you think it was something more?"

"Well, I just thought…" I falter and try to rephrase my words into something coherent. "I actually think you both look good together. And you seemed very close to him. I thought…well, that you might have been in love."

Her upper lip curls. "I know the media likes to romanticise our relationship, promoting the lonely ice huntress and the prince swooping in to her rescue, but Marth had a girlfriend back in Altea. A girlfriend who doesn't even know he's dead, actually," Samus says on a grim note. She scowls and spares a glance at me, and I'm suddenly afraid of being in such close proximity. "For one thing, I don't steal guys and secondly, Marth was far too exuberant for my tastes."

And for the rest of the journey, I shamefully hide behind my tabbed magazines and write notes on maps, battle customisation and the basics of advance tactics.

**-x-**

The gunship seemingly tumbles out the sky during landing. Rather than a smooth and gradual descent into Hyrule, Samus hits a few dangerous looking keys on the panel and lets the gunship drop. It gathers more and more momentum, such that I honestly think my insides are going to fly out of my mouth. Down and down, through a mass of smoky clouds, and I grip the armrests and hang on for dear life, and just when I think we're going to crash land in Death Mountain of all places, there is the relieving sound of air bursting underneath the gunship. We land quietly, without even the faintest bump.

I let out a painful breath I had no idea I had been holding in.

"That," says Samus flatly, "was for assuming – like everyone else – that Marth was my boyfriend."

"…I'll never assume it again," I manage weakly. I slump back in my seat and subtly check around myself to make sure I haven't made any sort of mess.

Samus flashes a light, easy smile at me. "We've landed close to Kakariko Village. In fact, it's the exact same spot as when we first picked you up, since the coordinates were transferred from the Flyer's travel log."

She releases the exit door. For the first time in months, fresh air greets my face as I clamber out the ship and jump into the wild grass of Hyrule Field. Straightaway, loose blades stick to my tunic and a lone bee darts past my cheek. It's quiet, static and normal. Put against the bustling streets of the Grounds' square and the tram stops of Mushroom Kingdom, it's unexciting and forgettable.

Hyrule is now engulfed in the shadow of the rest of the universe and her galaxies, but it was once enough for me – and it should continue to be so. Wrapped in this assurance, I hold my hand out for Samus to take. She drops from her ship without my assistance, and flicks off her power suit to land in her form-fitting uniform.

She straightens up and then fits her hand into mine. It's a solid movement, as fluid and certain as her confident steps. "Okay, so what's on in Hyrule?"

"Not much, really," I say truthfully. "The biggest event we host is the spring festival, which isn't anything compared to the Tournament."

Samus doesn't seem bothered by this fact. "You could give me a tour of the village," she suggests.

"Uh…yeah, all right." I fretfully try to scramble together some sites worthy of attention as we head towards Kakariko Village. Samus appears unused to the wild grass, for her pace is heavily slowed and irregular, to the point I can walk faster than her. She glances around at the open grass areas that serve as the streets; at the small houses bordering them with peeling paint and laundry thrown haphazardly over the fence; at the piles of chopped wood and barrels of fresh apples.

"Now I know how you feel when you're at the Grounds," Samus murmurs. "Like a fish out of water." She examines a wooden sign barely hanging on its post, and she raises an eyebrow at the angular Hylian text. A group of children slow their walking pace, and they stare behind them at Samus' shimmering uniform long after they have passed us.

Her nose wrinkles a little and I quickly respond, "I know it's different to what you're used to. I know it's not modern or advanced—"

She cuts in with a mere shake of her head, skilfully rendering me silent. "You don't get skies like this where I'm from." Samus jerks her head to gesture upwards. "These skies are clear and vast, no blemishes on the horizon. No zeppelins advertising the latest health fad, no contrails or searchlights or overpriced space shuttle cruises. It's nice." She observes me from behind her fringe. "Hyrule actually feels like a home, and not a place so busy and self-absorbed that we never stop to realise we're lost."

"You're kind to regard Hyrule in such a way." We head up the inn's steps so that we can drop off our bags.

"I'm guessing you don't think too highly of it then, after the way it treated you." Samus ducks through the doorway and her hand slides out of mine at the sight of the innkeeper. It surprises me how easily a resigned smile of defeat can come to my face.

"Something like that," I admit.

"Link!" the innkeeper's wife, Tara, exclaims. "You were gone a long while. Don't worry, I haven't rented out your room – I always figured you'd wander back here eventually! A friend?" She nods to Samus politely.

"Yes. This is Samus."

Tara looks at the zero suit with her brow furrowed, and though I know she is likening Samus to a deformed Zora, she remains polite enough to refrain from commenting. "Welcome, Samus," she says instead. "Is it your first time in Kakariko Village? There's plenty to do around here. Today the village market is open – you should take her, Link! You won't see fresher food in Hyrule."

It is a suggestion I have heard countless times, but this is the first occasion where I feel uncomfortable by – and even go as far as resenting – the inadequacy of Hyrule, where the embodiment of thrill is a cluttered marquee with overpriced vegetables under its brim. As such, once we are out of earshot, I tell Samus we'll give the market a miss because it really isn't that interesting. However, Samus doesn't concede so easily, and she strays from my side to follow the animated chatter of the village's central square.

The market is bustling (although when I say this, I admit the crowd of eager shoppers is about a fifth of the crowd who loiter around the Grounds' entrance) and a lot of gazes tear from vegetables on sale to stare at Samus. I imagine that even if she was dressed like the rest of us, she'd still receive attention. She stands a head taller than anyone else and when she talks, her accent is jarring. Still, her eyes flicker with a sprig of mischief and mild amusement as smitten farmers try to sell handfuls of their products to her.

"Here," I say, correctly deciphering the slight waning of her smile. I tip some Rupees into her hand and she uses them to buy an orange.

We wander out the village and sit at the edge of the stream. Away from her role as my sponsor and coach, away from prying eyes and curious fans of Smash Brothers, she is surprisingly relaxed. Her shoulder muscles soften and as she peels the orange and cleanly halves it, she tilts her head to look at me.

She hands one half to me. "Mewtwo has access to all of the records of the Tournament Grounds," she says, not quite feigning spontaneity. "The Museum log says you visited them five days ago."

I look up, meeting her gaze head on. "I'm still wondering why you didn't tell me you were a two time Champion."

For a fraction of a second, she looks deadly, haughty. Then, she seeks refuge in her orange, taking one segment and nibbling on it. "You're wondering why I delayed it as long as possible to admit I was the Smash queen of tools?"

"Is that what you call yourself?" I tear my gaze away from the empty stretch of Hyrule Field. I almost laugh in disbelief. "You won the Tournament two times…! You're a legend. There have been whispers all over the Grounds from the beginning, saying how the Tournament has been lacking this year. I had no idea that by losing you, Smash Brothers lost its projectile expert and a Champion. You're the best fighter of us all."

She smiles, but there is nothing happy behind it. Together, we study her rippling reflection in the water. I am convinced I'm looking at something of fragile beauty, but Samus stares down as though she wishes for nothing more than to gut the stream like a helpless fish.

"And on the other hand, what do people like Ike say about me?"

I shift, nervous. "Well…er…"

Samus nudges my ribs with an elbow. "You don't have to feel embarrassed on my behalf. I know the kind of person I was."

I remain unconvinced. "You shouldn't call yourself a tool. Why would you disregard your accomplishments so quickly?"

Samus shifts to sit cross legged. "You're asking the wrong things. What you need to be asking is how the Smash Brothers Tournament reached an intergalactic level in a matter of months. Not only that, you need to be asking how a Tournament that sold itself to Mushroom Kingdom by claiming to be a game of unity, somehow bred a horde of vicious fighters who couldn't spell unity if someone shouted out the letters to them. Master Hand has twisted a pipeline dream of intergalactic harmony into a money making scheme where people all across the galaxy scream for more blood and humiliation. I'll tell you how: it started with me."

Her hands fall limply to the side and for a moment, she looks as though she might finally give in to her well-practised stoicism, but she skirts just shy of the start of truth. "Master Hand needed someone who'd eventually change the tune of the Tournament. He strung me along, used me and my career as a galactic huntress because he knew I had no other purpose than to fight. Why do you think I didn't shake hands with Smashers, why I didn't indulge in the perks of stardom? Master Hand trained me into a fighter, not a celebrity. He simply magnified the degree of coldness I had in me and made it twist the Tournament into a business."

My reply is swift, automatic, honest. "I don't think you're cold."

She appears wounded by my words. "Well…Marth," she explains vaguely. We fall into a sudden – albeit comfortable – silence. She just eats the remainder of her orange, while I observe the fragments of sun that skate down the stream. My stomach twists with the resonating echo of Samus' words, at one particular word.

"Before you think of it," Samus says abruptly, "no, you're not a tool. You're a member of our crew and our friend."

I chew my lip and let my thoughts wander. Perhaps I have always been a tool to Zelda, to Ganondorf, to the Sages and Samus and Master Hand. A means to an end, a stepping stone, a carefully constructed machine. Then I think of how long I have wished for a purpose, and how purposes – no matter their origin or nature – often grow into ambitions. One seemingly trivial purpose may eventually flourish into a dream.

"I don't think anyone in Smash Brothers is a game piece," I say finally. "You argue that the whole Tournament is a farce and we are just cogs to one machine. But if you fight the influences and the people who try to change you, if you know there's more to you than Smash Brothers, then you can hardly call yourself a tool."

"That's pretty much what Marth said," Samus says, and she adds with a light smile, "although he was far less eloquent."

In that instant, I understand why Samus had mellowed over time. She is someone of self doubt, no matter how high she keeps her chin, how square she sets her shoulders. Marth must have been able to ease her worries just like that, and now in the wake of his death, her niggling thoughts of being an empty shell is eating her up inside.

"Come on." I leap to my feet and pull Samus up by her arm. "I don't know what I was talking about earlier – there's so much to do in Hyrule. Are you afraid of heights?"

She blinks, nonplussed. "Link, I just piloted you across six dangerous space quadrants renowned for tempestuous supernovas, and at thirty thousand feet."

I point to Kakariko's windmill. "Can you climb, then?"

"You know what," Samus says around a smile, "I'll race you."

**-x-**

Samus and I end up exploring the majority of Kakariko, right to the foot of Death Mountain. I tell her about the Well of Three Features and the monster that had been locked beneath it, somewhere in the folds of time; I teach her how to pick up Cuccos without chasing them in circles and hold them comfortably; as the sun starts to set, I take her to the stream again and show her how to fish; and just as the sun melts into the horizon, we sit in the graveyard and throw ghost stories into the cool air of dusk.

I learn many things about her today, different facets and meanings and levels to her behaviour. I take Cucco feathers out from her hair and she manages to smack my ribs with the fishing rod in panicky response to a bite; and though the whole afternoon has been the peaceful remedy needed to calm my Tournament nerves, there is one moment in particular that lingers.

From the sloped, sturdy top of Kakariko windmill, the view is spectacular. The sunset transforms the brown roofs to giant scarlet plates, and it filters through the thin panelling of the windmill's blades as they cut through the sky in front of us.

I have sat like this before, watching the day give in to the night, but it had been with a different horizon, a different person. For some unfathomable reason, I remember Marth and the way he used to chew the edge of his gloves and scold himself afterwards for being so openly hesitant. The more I think about him, the more I recall knowledge of his existence. I keep asking myself, have the Goddesses become an intangible conduit, connecting me to Marth?

Though I know the counter evidence is right in front of my eyes, as Samus' tired default expression of masked grief, I cannot help but half wonder, half hope, that Marth might actually be alive.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 9**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: I've actually been concentrating more on the next chapter as that's where it starts to dig into the plot. There are hints here and there as to where this fic is heading, but I'll leave that to you to find out :) As always, thank you to the kind people who read and especially review this fic. Your support and encouragement does wonders for my motivation to keep this fic going. Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.**

**~Byoshi**


	10. the missing shadow

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.**

**A/N: Boo what a late update – I've been getting sloppy! Still, an update's an update, so thanks for clicking and sticking with this fic. A specific thank you to anon reviewer ****Dash**** for giving me that final push to finish this chapter, and of course a big, heartfelt shout out to my wonderful beta, Crazy Foxie, for her usual immeasurable help. Any remaining errors are solely my own. Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and favourited this fic between this update and the last! Cheers, and enjoy!**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**THE EULOGY**

**AND **

**THE UNSUNG HERO**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**o-o-chapter 10 – the missing shadow-o-o**

_When the Arena opened its jaws, everyone was stark and bright and tangible in the burning glare of the spotlight. Luigi, however, felt like he always did. He melted, even though he was freezing cold; his knees locked up, even though he was buckling from the weight. The seconds clawed at him in the back of his mind, sneers of one and two to fifty-nine and sixty; he counted the passing time with them, singing in his head the song of his insignificance._

_He watched Mario's retreating back, watched the way he reached for his fans and his arms seized the sparkling Arena the way an eagle seized the sky. Luigi took careful steps, and he was unsurprised at how seamlessly he fit into the shade. He relented to the fact he was a shadow, and shadows only existed when there was sun and even then, the sun didn't notice the silhouettes it drew on the earth until they went missing._

_Then, there was a sharp tug on his arm, and Luigi remembered. This year was different. This year, one cog had slipped from his whirring mantra of being just the other brother. He looked up at the unassuming eyes, and Marth pulled him out of the shadows with a strong grip that proved Luigi was solid and separate, that he had been found. _

**-x-**

Six matches into the Qualifying Round, enough score points have accumulated to create a league table and consequently, an idea of who may make it to the Tournament. Though I am still learning to read numbers, I work out the current line up by the helpful avatars that accompany the name strips. Suffice to say, I'm disheartened when I see I am only three up from the bottom.

The matches have been difficult. Although Falco goes out of his way to subtly pass match points to me, he is used to his advanced play and unconsciously thinks someone as fast and attentive as Fox is backing him. He can't break out of his habits, and it is this that prompts me to adjust my battle tactics.

On the morning of my seventh Qualifying match, I stop at the lobby's vending machine to buy a can of lemonade. (This drink, in Eden, is my only reliable company which doesn't wrinkle its nose at the mere sight of me.)

"—interesting turn of events with Meta Knight and Lucario," a chat show host says on the giant television behind me. "As a team, the two are going at full steam, having won all of their Qualifying matches so far. Lucario snags the top spot with an impressive tally of match victory and kill points. Defending champion Meta Knight, however, dawdles at thirteenth place with an average, almost bored approach to his matches."

"As the Tournament's most elusive of Smashers, Meta Knight is in all likelihood keeping his moveset and tactics under wraps, saving it for the Tournament itself," says her colleague. "Notice how Meta Knight has never fallen below sixteenth place."

"Ike remains steady in the five to ten band, along with Diddy Kong, Fox McCloud, Pit and Dedede. The Greil mercenary is this year's favourite, and he has certainly impressed fans across the universe with the colossal number of kills that balance out his frequent match losses. Meanwhile, newcomers Snake and Link have proven themselves somewhat disappointing. Both currently sit in the lowest band, and Link has even managed to drag his partner Falco Lombardi down with him."

"I know, I know," I grumble into my drink.

"We can only hope that these dawdling Smashers have some tactics in reserve and are ready to turn the tables."

There's a deep but faint hint of a laugh behind me. I turn to see Snake, who's on his way out of Eden. "They're utterly convinced we're just screwing around like Meta Knight," he greets. "They seem to think we have some aces up our sleeves."

"Have you?" I ask promptly.

"Nope. You?"

I shake my head and nod towards the league table emblazoned on the giant screen. "That's me trying hard."

Snake offers another gruff laugh. "I keep catching you in the museum booths. You're doing what I'm doing, watching old match footage and trying to mimic the tactics. It's easier said than done, huh."

"At least you have a cooperative partner," I reason. "Falco's really suffering with me as his teammate and now he's choosing to do his own thing."

"I wouldn't put 'Dedede' and 'cooperative' in the same sentence," Snake says, around a smile. "He was a last resort and trust me, with the way he flounders around the map and forgets he's in a team battle, it's no mystery why. I guess I'll see you in five."

I nod. "See you later."

I watch Snake's retreating back. My heart thunders somewhere between my ears in the wake of all the lies I have told to counter Snake's own.

Not long after, someone slaps me round the head. "Ouch!"

Falco scoffs and jams on his headset. "Don't do that, all right?" he snaps. "Don't fraternise with the enemy."

"I wasn't. It was Snake who—"

"Uh uh, I don't want excuses." He bats around me with an impatient wing, as if I'm covered in fleas. "Smashers play more games _off_ the battlefield than on it. Don't get caught unawares. Snake is trying to distract you, and a distracted Smasher makes a susceptible Smasher. Got it?" He steers me to the Tournament Grounds. "We need these points, Link. We need to fight back."

"Don't worry, I've studied hard this time." I smile at him, but Falco seems grossly offended by it. "And I know Snake was trying to catch me off guard. He picked Dedede as his partner for a very good reason, no matter what he says."

"Get in." Falco jabs the lift's button and makes no sign of acknowledging his sponsor Quentin, who squeezes into the lift with us.

"Lucario's on forty-three points," says Quentin. "You're on nineteen, and you've only got seven more matches to make it into the top sixteen. I hope you're happy," he adds to me vehemently. "This year was supposed to be Falco's year."

"It weren't Link who up and bailed on me," Falco replies before I can apologise. "Go and ask Fox why he blew Lylat's team. You're no use to me here if all you're doing is pissing yourself with worry."

Quentin mumbles something that might be an insult. Nevertheless, he dutifully remains quiet as the lift drops us into the lower levels of the Grounds' Arena. "Snake and Dedede are a tough team," Falco murmurs to me. "Now, you've been sacrificing these past six matches to perfect your aerial game. To be honest, it still isn't great, but it's a heck of a lot better than Snake's. We need to push these guys. You know, horizontally." He draws an invisible plane with one arm. "They're fat and bulky. Vertical send offs are just going to waste time."

"I understand."

"Also, since you're a fool, I'll give you one last bit of advice: _don't_ get distracted by Dedede's fan base. He pays an army to come along and support him, and they chant and sing and wave colourful banners and yes, some Smashers have made stupid mistakes by losing concentration or counting their seconds in time with the music. If the crowd gets too much, fully incorporate your ear plugs."

I nod and double check they are on my person. We head up the tunnel to greet the attending Toad.

"Welcome, welcome, red team!" he squeaks in greeting. "Patches equipped? Good. As usual, the rules are all up on screen. Your match is against Snake and King Dedede on Pokemon Stadium 1, five stock, friendly fire on, and a reserved time limit of forty-five minutes. It's one point per kill, minus two for a team kill or suicide, three points for a victorious match, none for a draw or a loss. Do either of you have any questions?"

We shake our heads, and in a matter of minutes, the bright gateway to the Arena opens.

**-x-**

When I served the Goddesses as the Hero of Time, I once fought a monster in the grisly heart of the Shadow Temple. It was a horrendous creature, with rotting hands cut off from its giant body and raw, bloody stumps as its arms. It chased me round the confines of the dungeon with a single giant eye to steer itself. It could become invisible, and I often ran straight into it in a desperate bid for safe ground. During the pauses of battle, I retched and choked on the pungent smell of damp and grime and rotting flesh.

This monster gave me nightmares for many years afterwards. You are often left with deep psychological scars when you are forced to handle adult fears as a child. Even now, when I idly think about Smash Brothers and by extension, Master Hand, I often panic and imagine it's that monster hiding in him.

Despite all the horrors of this battle, which are too powerful to dissipate in the mercy of time, what I remember most clearly about that fight is the uneven, drum skin terrain I had to battle on. Every time that monster unleashed a powerful hand attack, the floor trembled like quicksand beneath my feet. The vibration careered up the walls, up my legs, and I fell to my hands and knees more times than I could count, and I remember wondering in despair how someone could fight, if he wasn't even allowed to stand.

A fight with Dedede is rather like this. Dedede has no problem whatsoever in flooring me and once again, I am forced to experience the shuddering, painful struggle of trying to stay upright. In line with his flamboyant and haphazard fighting style, Dedede holds the Arena in an impressive thrall. Each of his connecting blows has a huge proportion of the crowd up on their feet with a roar. Oppressive chants that praise Dedede engulf the Arena and behind this, there is the steady drone of a million drumbeats, hitting out a rhythm in time to the undulating banners for the King. For every spare moment he has, Dedede gestures to the crowd with the air of a town mayor bashfully calming the adulations.

I end up wasting my first stock getting battered and pursued relentlessly by him.

"Link is showing clear signs of struggle against Dedede," shouts Glitzy. Her voice rings over the ruckus of fans and she mercilessly barrages my confidence. "The newcomer is obviously thrown by how easily Dedede's moves connect. All Smashers have been there!"

Falco quickly evens up the score by dealing a meteor smash to Dedede, and he uses the handful of seconds in the opponents' absence to collar me. "It's all right, it's all right, Link," he says, and he's so calm and dismissive I nearly think it's Fox. "You just need to deal the killing blows; Marth taught you how to do that. Relax, focus. You can make the jump."

I nod fiercely and launch back into battle. Snake targets me with a vicious stream of attacks, and it isn't long before I start racking up percentage. While I manage to counter with several hits of my own, it bothers me more than it should that Snake – barely an hour ago – had openly told me he and Dedede were a random pair.

The thing about Dedede is that it's impossible to ignore him – and this kind of incredible distraction is ideal for a trap master like Snake. There is nothing random about his selection at all. Dedede is the perfect Smasher to confuse opponents enough into treading a mine they didn't know was there. While it's Dedede doing all the work, Snake is the one reaping the benefits.

"We're seeing something interesting here," Glitzy says from the commentators' box. "Falco and Link appear to have caught onto the blue team's method of attack and are now breaking it up. Falco has Dedede trapped in a vicious onslaught, leaving Link free to challenge Snake."

I really do not like jumping. It's dangerous territory, leaves me very open, and it's a struggle to get back. However, from watching past matches at the Museum, it's not an uncommon issue amongst Smashers, and I have to make that leap. Marth, for all his skill, had terrible recovery – but since he had perfected his timing and range, he could always get back.

Following this style, I make a dash off the stage and target Snake, aiming an aerial attack. The gap below is a dark and cavernous mouth, but I concentrate on forcing Snake out the boundaries.

"This is very interesting," Gillepsie shouts over the vague cheers for my resulting point. "With their setup broken, Snake and Dedede are easily punishable. Link makes a safe return to the stage – which he surely couldn't have accomplished without Falco expertly blocking Dedede. Is it a fluke, I wonder?"

Falco grabs and tosses Dedede backwards, pushing him into my line of fire. This time, I coax Dedede off the stage and out the boundaries; all the while, Falco occupies Snake to protect my return. We fall into a smooth, reliable mantra of constant switching.

"This is a play style is an exact copy of the Third Tournament's Qualifying Round with Marth Lowell and Luigi." Glitzy's voice somehow manages to shriek past my ear plugs. "Now what makes this interesting isn't the fact they've got it down perfect, it's more the case that this is the first time in the Qualifying matches that we've seen a team in such harmony. Watch this bit here with Falco circling and tossing Dedede. Falco never turns round to check his back is safe; instead, he has complete conviction Link is going to cover and support – which he does! This most certainly isn't a fluke!"

I grin inwardly at Glitzy's unrestrained surprise as I once again take the battle to the dangerous, ledge-less air space of Pokémon Stadium. Dedede grunts with annoyance at my relentless attempts to force him out the map boundaries. Once or twice, Snake breaks through Falco's stronghold and interrupts. However, Falco easily absolves the problem with his meteor strike, which has a large proportion of fans screaming and leaves Dedede's chant somewhat punctured and out of time.

As the match finishes, with us as winners, Falco utters to me, "Sorry, I had to claim that last point. Snake would have offed you in that space of time otherwise."

"Great match," says Snake. We all shake hands and he manages a half smile. "You found an ace up your sleeve then."

"The same way you did," I return. "You were both a tough match."

"Wait until you face Meta Knight and Lucario," says Dedede, inviting himself into the conversation while blowing kisses with both hands to his fans. "They'll mop the floor with your face."

**-x-**

On one of my days off, I turn up at the Tournament Shop armed with my RFID card. I have wanted to visit the store ever since I saw it, but the reporters camped outside the building have often curbed my attempts to act on my desire.

After the victory against Snake and Dedede, however, my mood is so unbreakable that I tackle the questions with ease. I spend half an hour having pictures taken with my fans (a concept I still can't believe, no matter how many autographs I sign). The store then becomes a refuge as I step in and the manager seals off public access. I marvel at the automatic doors before working out – from various looks in and out the store – that this is considered weird.

"Come in, come in," the store manager says. "Link, isn't it? Crazy Redd recognises you, cousin!" He's a short fox in an apron, who makes no effort to hide his nosiness as he follows me round the aisles. His mouth curves into a smile as his narrow eyes study the RFID card round my neck. "As a Smasher, you're granted free entry and immediate usage of Smash Brothers' official vendors, Nookington's and the Black Market! Not _the_ black market, mind you. That'd be CRAAAAAZY!"

I jump and stagger backwards. I try to disguise my shock as a brisk turn to study the shelves. Redd is a little distracting, as he has commentary for every item I pick up, and conveniently mistakes my innocent glances to be longing stares at pricy items.

"You have a keen eye for quality, I see!" he says, when I accidentally look at a set of bookends. He picks them up and lifts them to my face. "Hand crafted, featuring the intricate engraving of Samus Aran in her two battle forms. Perhaps you'd like to see your own set?" He digs through the shelves and balances a display box on his head while standing on his toes. "Bookends featuring a silver blade on one side, and the hero's mark – the triple triangle – on the other."

"Triforce," I supply. "Technically, it marks three chosen people…"

"What about a Space Animal doorstop?" Redd throws my bookends aside and delves for a heavy slab, which features such a grotesque carving of Wolf's face that I'd be horrified to see it in any home.

"N-no thanks," I manage. "Do people actually buy this stuff?"

"Of course! There's a sucker coming through those doors every minute...huh? I didn't say anything!" He pushes me round the store and puts me in a particularly vulnerable position between a glow stick display and crystallised keychain stand. "Aha! You're someone for colours!"

He whips out a small stepladder (which I swear was nowhere near us at the time) and hops up it to retrieve a selection of hoops. "I have a total of six different colours and three sizes. The malleable ones are better, however. They're _slightly_ more expensive, but they come with super quality and a longer life! Imagine the fun you can have, waving them at the next game! One for thirty Coins, but Redd will make a special offer of two for just fifty. Why? Because he's CRAAAAAAAAZY!"

"I…Well, okay," I give in, wincing. I take two glow sticks and add them to my growing collection of pointless things I simply have to buy.

"No, I can see the true you," Redd says sagely. "You're a collector! Let me show you the limited edition figure set, _Generation IV_. They've only just been released. If you like, I can even give you a pre-order form for SP145: _Link _and SP146: _Snake_." He drags me with surprising strength to one of the glittering display cabinets. Miniscule figurines with enormous prices litter the glass shelves. I catch my panicked reflection, but the words to refuse his sales simply won't form.

Grudgingly, I realise it's me versus Dedede all over again. This budding fox has floored me and insists on walking over any attempt I make to escape him. The only way to placate him is to keep adding to my shopping basket. What's especially disappointing about this scenario is that it takes so little to convince me: I _do _want one of the limited edition figures from _Generation IV_. Why wouldn't I want one? As Redd goes on to explain, they have improved manoeuvrability from the previous collection, they're accurate and comprehensive, _and_ I get a free display stand if I buy three or more. Really, they are so perfectly detailed and crafted, I can almost convince myself that I have blinked and woken up as a giant.

I try to decide whether to buy the model of Final Destination (which glows in the dark) or the figure of R.O.B. (whose eyes come on if I flick a switch), while Redd brings out a board with wheels and converts my basket into a mini trolley. He pushes it along for me in a smarmy gesture of assistance. In the midst of my pointless train of thought about figurines, I spot my saving grace in the cabinet's mirrored back. Reflected there is a bookstand and at it, muttering to himself, is Luigi.

I head over to him, and Redd trundles the trolley behind me while humming. "Hi."

Luigi nods politely. "I recognised your fight long before everyone else did." He flinches visibly when he notices I have offered out a hand. "S-sorry," he mutters. We shake hands and he closes his book. It has a dynamic shot of Fox as its cover.

"I took inspiration from several of your Qualifying matches," I admit. "If that was out of line, I am sorry. I want to thank you too. You really helped me out."

Luigi shrugs my words away. "I didn't do anything." His gaze darts about the store, convinced an arrow from thin air may pierce him as punishment for merely conversing with me. "You fought well. Too well." He crosses his arms to force a barrier between us. "I…well, I'd been meaning to ask how you did it."

"I just watched the Museum videos and practised." I don't know whether I should be apologetic, as Luigi seems more disheartened than insulted, as though I have just told him it's going to rain tomorrow.

"Oh," says Luigi. It has taken him a few seconds to formulate this bland response.

My mind races to jam together the puzzle pieces I have been given. As someone who has spent hours watching and picking apart their Qualifying matches, I know Luigi and Marth got on well. I also know, from listening to the audio at the Museum, that save for the Third Tournament, Luigi has always been partnered with his more-famous brother, Mario.

"You thought I learned it through Marth personally," I conclude.

"Something like that." Luigi offers a smile, and though it's genuine, I can't help but think even that is capable of dropping the mood. "It was a stupid assumption." He studies me for a moment, during which time I pray he can't read my face and work out Marth is dead. "In any case, you weren't out of line at all. I was…I suppose I was nearly inspired by it. Hence the guides." He gestures to the bookstand beside him.

"Guides?"

Various images of Fox jump across the pages as Luigi fans through his colourful book. "They're comprehensive guides to each Smasher. The first third or so is pointless – like where they're from and what their favourite colours are – but the later sections are useful. It covers movesets and general match ups. Oh and this page is the stat table." Luigi flicks right to the end and points to a complicated blue grid. "It's has their approximate weight, jump and speed, which you can use to construct accurate wire frames at the Training Grounds."

"Anything that will help me go up the league table," I say. I pick up guides on Snake, Lucario and Meta Knight and wince a little at the weight of my basket.

"Did you get any?" Luigi nods towards the figure cabinet.

"Just the one of Final Destination," I reply, feeling less stupid when I spot Luigi has three model boxes of his own. "Hyrule doesn't have glow in the dark things, so…" I laugh nervously. "I'd buy them all, to be honest, but I shouldn't be spending my sponsors' money so quickly."

"You should see the music box collection they released when the Third Tournament ended. _Triple Era_. Just one of them costs more than half of _Generation IV _combined." Luigi shakes his head, pulling a face. "If you're Smasher fodder like me, you don't have matches or Tournaments to pass the time. That's why you collect models instead."

His misery slides off me as easily as my earlier compliments eluded him. "I don't agree." I pick up two extra guides and slot them in his basket. "I think every Smasher has a chance; no one is fodder."

Luigi remains unconvinced, such that I find myself imagining if he could win in a battle of obstinacy against Falco. "Everyone starts off thinking that." He speaks so flatly, it quashes any more attempts to tell him otherwise.

"So…do they have the _Triple Era _here?" I decide to change the conversation to something Luigi finds less depressing. Crazy Redd, however, is the one who answers. His face lights up as if I've just announced I want to buy everything in the store.

"Do we have it? We'd be CRAAAAAZY not to! You _are_ a serious collector! Right this way." He squeezes past me, smiling at our overflowing baskets. "_Triple Era_ was released five months ago to commemorate the retired Smashers of the Third Tournament. Samus Aran features as the centrepiece, with Marth Lowell and Captain Falcon as separate collectibles. The trio's bases collectively create the stunning background of the Tournament Grounds by night."

I look up at the glittering figurines, and Redd clambers up a stepladder to unlock the cabinet. "Each figure is sculpted with utmost care, featuring enamelled metal, over five hundred tiny crystals and a music box at its base that plays their respective requiem theme. The masterpiece of this collection is the ornamental clock key that winds the music boxes. This is the genuine stuff, the true trophies only the finest of collectors display! Let me just get this one to start with." He wobbles down the stepladder with the Marth collectible (most likely to enthral both me and Luigi). The statue dwarfs Redd, so Luigi takes it from him helpfully and clears a lower shelf for it.

"They never released anything like this for the other retirements," Luigi says, admiring the intricacies of the collectible.

Redd totters over with a sparkling key. He adds a few more sentences of excitability at such craftsmanship, before moving the figure round to wind up the music box. In that short moment, it's a key and nothing more. I even go as far as thinking its red and green gems make it a little garish, and I soon forget about it in the wake of admiring the figure itself. I bend to have a look, drawn to the shimmering crystals and Marth in his eternal pose of Shield Breaker.

Its only when the cogs inside him start to turn, and the music plays from within, that I remember the music box with a jolt. My blood runs cold – or maybe it just stops altogether – as the notes ring in the base of my ears, and though they are high, gentle chimes, I sink back like I am hearing the toll of a bell instead.

"Link? Are you all right?" Luigi eyes me warily.

I collect myself, breathless and confused. "I'll…I'll take it," I half-shout at Redd. "I need to take it."

I race through check out, tossing my RFID card at Redd and shaking uncontrollably as he packs my items. All the while, my heart beats in my throat and struggle to form coherent sentences as Luigi badgers me for information. But how do I even start?

I'm the Hero of Time from a Kingdom on the other side of the universe, who fought in a war everyone forgot; yet here in front of me is a tiny box buried beneath crystals, and it's singing the Song of Storms.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**END CHAPTER 10**

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**A/N: Thanks for reading this far! I might need to apologise for the hammy Crazy Redd there; he worked better than Tom Nook did, so I kept him in to progress the second half of this chapter. As usual, comments and feedback are always gratefully received, so don't be shy! :) Thanks again for reading, and hopefully see you next chapter!**

**~Byoshi**


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